


Carry On, My Wayward Son

by PeaceHeather



Series: Buffy fics [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: A whole lot of dialogue, Episode: s05e20 The Girl In Question, Gen, I was in a phase with this and Fate's Guardian, Not my best fic in my opinion, others disagree, wherein everything was exposition dump disguised as dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:29:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Ats Season 5, veers from canon during "The Girl In Question". Rated for language. Characters: Spike, The Immortal, a cameo from Buffy. Spike meets the Immortal face-to-face for the first time. The conversation that follows is nothing that he would have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One moment Spike was standing by the fountain with Angel, arguing with the great lummox about which of them had saved the world more (translation, which of them was more worthy to pursue Buffy’s affections), and waiting for a complete stranger to show up and hand them a dead demon’s head in a duffel bag; his life, Spike decided, had officially lost all dignity and meaning. The next, he was flying through the air, knocked clear across the little plaza and smashing into the stone wall on the other side, because the item in the bag turned out to be not a demon’s head but an oversized bundle of TNT and a timer.

He was dazed, his ears ringing and the smell of rubble and dust blocking out everything else around him; he ached from the force of the explosion, the bits of flying stone that had caught him, and of course his impact with the ancient cobblestones. Spike couldn’t seem to get his limbs to move in the direction he wanted them to go, and only managed to stay upright, once he’d finally gotten his feet under him, by staggering into a wall and hanging on for his unlife. So when he felt hands lifting him up, attached to blurred faces and voices muffled by all the ringing in his ears, it didn’t occur to him there was a problem until he realized, belatedly, that they were helping him to head the wrong way.

“Hey,” he said, still stunned and seeing double. Sort of lurched to one side, trying to get the people holding him up to turn around and go back they way they’d come. Whoever was holding him wasn’t hurting him, but they weren’t letting go, either, even when he started to struggle in earnest. “Hey,” he said again. “This’s – you’re not –”

Somebody patted his arm companionably, which would have been fine except someone else threw a bag over his head. Completely disoriented, the people on him got him to stumble a few more steps before he bumped his hip against something, and then they lifted his legs and he felt himself falling sideways.  Spike hit his head against something hard, and that was that. Briefly, he heard and felt the vibration of a car with its motor running, all around him. Then he just felt the pain go away, followed by the ringing in his ears, followed by pretty much everything else. 

* * *

 

 He woke to warmth and silence, which was unexpected, and pain which kind of was; he’d survived a bomb blast, after all. Still, as awareness returned so did the memory of being dumped into the boot of a car with a bag over his head – of being manhandled and kidnapped, sod it all. At least he hadn’t been at the business end of a giant military taser, this time ( _bag him and tag him_ , came the unpleasant memory, the voice of a young idiot soldier somewhere behind his left shoulder, the recollection still too recent even after a few years had passed). Spike stopped his breathing and made sure his body was still completely limp, that he hadn’t tensed in reaction.

Caution now; anger later, when it would do the most good.

Spike lay perfectly still, listening with everything he had in him, but he caught nothing especially ominous. Bit the opposite, in fact; faint traffic noises, voices laughing and calling to one another, the sort of thing you hear out on the street, batch of friends out for a pub-crawl; the soft tick and chime of a grandfather clock, surprisingly close by, in the same room, perhaps. No screams or moans or anything along those lines.

No nearby voices, no breathing, no heartbeats in the room with him, far as he could tell. Didn’t rule out a vampire guard, of course, but things seemed promising. Spike risked opening one eye, then the other after a moment of waiting.

None of what he saw quite made sense; or, well, it did in that he could immediately tell what sort of room he was in, but this didn’t seem quite the place to put someone you’d just knocked unconscious and abducted. Along the wall across from him, there was an antique sideboard made of dark wood, well appointed with a collection of crystal decanters and liquor bottles, a tray holding crystal tumblers, a silver-and-copper coffee service… and was that an actual absinthe fountain? The wall itself was light colored but hung with a large, heavy tapestry, keeping the room out of the bright-and-chipper zone. There was a pair of armchairs, which looked to be upholstered in crushed velvet, placed near heavy velvet curtains on part of the wall to his right. An end table near one chair held a couple of books and a lamp turned low; all of this on lush, thick carpeting.

Everything else was books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a couple of them fronted with glass, lined the walls everywhere he looked.

Spike sat up painfully, biting back a hiss as his injuries made themselves known. He wasn’t tied up or chained to anything, nice change of pace there, and he was fully clothed apart from his leather duster, but his threads were definitely the worse for wear. The room was much larger than he’d first expected; some of the bookshelves lining the walls projected out into the room, dividing the space into smaller sections, and the carpet muffled sound, making the entire place sound and feel… intimate. Cozy.

Not exactly a torture chamber ambience, that was for sure.

Struggling to his feet, Spike limped around the room, exploring. The grandfather clock he’d heard earlier was in the other, larger section, at the opposite end of the room; there was a fireplace with a fire laid but not lit, and a few more chairs and small tables here and there. He had been lying on a chaise longue that looked as antique as all the other furnishings, except that it was upholstered in butter-soft suede leather. Everything was done in dark wood, deep greens and midnight blue, accented mostly with silver or brass.

A footstool or two, lamps here and there. A desk at one end of the space. No sign of Angel, or anyone else. No sign of his duster, either, come to that.

Spike spotted the door easily enough, but was debating with himself whether or not to try the knob. It might be locked, yeah, but more than that, it might be a trap. Be just his luck, that, try to step out and find himself hit with electricity or a contact spell of some kind; no, thank you. This could be some quiet space set aside by that busty Wolfram and Hart bird for him to recover, so she could get back to condescending and pinching his cheeks while pretending to adore him and Angel. It could just as likely be a setup by the sodding Immortal, another opportunity for him to… well, to mock and condescend. Rome seemed to be the place for that sort of thing, apparently.

But sod it. Spike wasn’t a coward before the soul, and even if he’d learned caution he wasn’t about to let his actions be dictated by anybody else.

So he screwed on his badass attitude and best sneer, did his best to disguise his limp, and opened the door…

…to be greeted with a bow by some bloke who’d clearly been waiting in the hall for him.

“Ah, signore, buona sera. Good evening. I shall tell il maestro you are awake,” said the bloke.

Spike blinked.


	2. Chapter 2

The fella wasn’t quite human, but Spike couldn’t pin down his scent or his facial features well enough to figure what species he might be. The bloke tapped an earpiece and spoke softly to it in rapid-fire Italian, then offered Spike another smile and bow.

“Il maestro will be with you soon,” he said. “If you will come with me, per favore?”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Rather just wait here, if it’s all the same to you,” he said.

“Of course, signore,” said the fella. “Do you like something to drink?”

A drink? A sodding _drink_? What the bleed –

“What the bleeding hell is going on here?” Spike demanded.  The only reason he wasn’t grabbing the guy by the throat and shaking the answers out of him was because Spike’s current state of health would probably make the fight unpleasantly one-sided. It helped, a little, that the bloke didn’t sneer at him or try on that damned condescending smile he’d been seeing so much of lately. Instead, he just looked confused, and maybe a little upset. It was enough to make Spike wonder if he was still in Rome after all, or if the guy just wasn’t a native.

“You are a guest, signore.” This came from another bloke just coming around the corner in the hallway, holding a bundle in his arms. “Il maestro, he is conducting business at the moment, but we are told to give you anything you wish, yes? A drink, food, blood…” He held out his bundle for Spike to look at. “A change of clothing, if you wish to, eh, how you say… refresh? Fare il bagno – to be clean, from the explosion.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, right, a bath. I’ll just get myself into a tub and all sudsy, then have you lot come bustin’ in on me with stakes and crossbows while I’m starkers, yeah? Brilliant plan, mate.” He folded his arms and tried not to be too obvious as he leaned against the doorjamb. “Think I don’t remember you lot puttin’ a sodding bag over me head, hm? Think again.”

“I know nothing of this, signore,” said the one with the earpiece. “Il maestro, he does not tell us such things. He only says that you are a guest, signore, an honored guest. You may stay here to wait for him, if you wish, or go with me to meet him now, or you may take a moment for il bagno, or to eat. Or anything else you prefer. It is in your hands, signore.”

“Yeah?” said Spike. “And who is this maestro of yours, anyway?”

“Ehh…” the two blokes looked at each other nervously. “Ci dispiace, signore; we are sorry,” said the one with the clothes. “We have, how you say, istruzioni…”

“What kind of instructions,” asked Spike, already guessing the answer.

“Il maestro wishes to tell you himself, signore. He tells us to give you whatever you wish, but he –”

“He’ll answer my questions, if he feels like it, and you lot get to keep me in the dark because he bloody said so.”

The one with the pile of clothing shrugged apologetically; the one with the earpiece grimaced and shuffled his feet for a moment, then froze and turned away slightly, touching his ear and muttering softly in Italian.

“Yeah. ’S about what I thought.”

Spike fought a sigh. He and Angel had been dealing with this sort of runaround bollocks their entire time in Italy. If it wasn’t the Immortal playing his stupid little games, then it was Wolfram and Hart: Rome edition; and Spike wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that they were in the Immortal’s pocket themselves. That Ilona bird looked like something the git would be happy to “entertain” now and again, and she’d probably enjoy it just as much.

Spike was bloody sick of Italy, and everything it represented to him.

“We are sorry, signore. If we could…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Is there anything else we may –”

“There’s not.”

If he hadn’t been so weary and hurt – body and soul – he likely would have said something more, or just started punching faces in until he got what he was after; instead, he glowered, and waited, while the two men in the hall with him just stood there looking uncomfortable. After another moment or two of muttering into his earpiece, the first one finally turned to him, a slightly relieved expression on his face.

“Il maestro has finished his business,” he said, “and wishes to know where you would like to meet him, signore.”

Now Spike did sigh. “I don’t sodding care,” he replied. “Here’s fine. You said I could have a drink?”

“Si, signore, of course.” Spike didn’t even bother to see whether it was Tweedledum or Tweedledee who answered him. “What would you like us to –”

“I’ll get it myself,” he said. Pushed himself away from the doorjamb and limped back into the library. Ignored their squawking behind him, all “signore you’re injured” and “signore can we help” and he just didn’t want to hear it anymore. Instead, he left them standing in the doorway and set a course for the sideboard; he hadn’t had absinthe in a few decades, and he had a feeling this “maestro” fella would have some of the good stuff in his collection.

Granted, he usually associated absinthe with either France or Switzerland. Also granted, Spike wouldn’t turn down a good scotch or, at this point, even cheap-shit bathtub gin if it were offered. It was just that, between Rome and the sodding Immortal, and Buffy, and everything to do with Wolfram and Hart – to say nothing of Illyria, and Los Angeles, and Dana the Mad Slayer – well, when you put it all together, the insanity everywhere he turned just seemed to merit a drink that was, itself, associated with madness.

Turned out he was right about the liquor selection; Spike found three labeled bottles of green absinthe and another of white, the coffee service had sugar cubes, and the delicate little absinthe spoons and portioned glasses were placed neatly, right next to the fountain. Of course, the fountain itself was empty, but the two lackeys were still standing out in the hall, so…

“Oy,” he turned around, hobbled a couple steps toward the door. “Mario and Luigi, or whatever you call yourselves.” Could be Gepetto and Pinocchio, for all he cared. “What say one of you trot along and find a pitcher of ice water and bring it back here, yeah?”

“That will not be necessary, signore.” The voice was unfamiliar, and, since it came from behind him, made the little hairs on Spike’s neck stand on end. He whirled back; the previously bone-dry absinthe fountain was now full to the brim with water and ice, and standing next to it, a man Spike had never seen before was taking a second glass off the tray and setting it beside Spike’s own.

There had been no puff of smoke, no rippling energy of a portal, no dramatics whatsoever; somehow, that lack of fanfare made Spike more nervous than any blatant display of power would have.

“Grazie, Marco, questo é tutto,” said the stranger. Spike glanced over his shoulder as one of the blokes in the hall shut the library door. “I apologize for the delay, signore. Shall I pour?”


	3. Chapter 3

Right. Well. This was just bloody perfect.

To recap: Spike’s existence had gone all to hell in the past year or two (who was he kidding, it’d all fallen apart the moment he’d arrived in Sunnydale, he just hadn’t been aware of it at the time). His recent journey had included among other adventures the recovery of his soul, subsequent death and resurrection, followed by manipulation and humiliations galore; all culminating, just this week, in a wild goose chase through most of Rome for a dead demon’s severed head, which ended in an explosion and Spike’s very own kidnapping.

And now his presumed captor was here, clearly in command of a good bit of magical power, and he was… offering to pour the drinks for them both.

“I must commend your selection,” he said; “this verte is one of my favorites, personally.”

Right. Just bloody perfect.

Spike had no idea what to say; he sure as hell wasn’t going to give the bloke the satisfaction of gaping and asking “how’d you get here” like some nitwit or –

“A parlor trick, I admit,” said the gentleman. “Albeit a useful one.”

He wasn’t much to look at; generically Italian, dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, expensive suit; not especially old or young in appearance, though Spike was well aware that apparent age meant nothing. No jewelry, no talismans or robes or horns or whatnot, no obvious trappings of ridiculous power or magic or ego. If Spike didn’t know better, he’d be inclined to call the fella bland.

The man poured the bright green liquor carefully into each glass, up to the portion mark. “Do you prefer one sugar, or two?”

“You make it sound like we’re havin’ a tea party,” said Spike.

The stranger chuckled. “I suppose you’re right,” he replied. “For the most part, when meeting someone for the first time, I find it best to fall back on courtesy.”

“Yeah, and for the most part I know when someone’s playing a game with me,” Spike countered. “How about we skip that bit and just cut right to the heart of it, hm? Who you are and what you want from me would be a good place to start.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s best.” The gentleman balanced a delicate slotted spoon atop each glass, rested a sugar cube on each. “After all, you’ve no reason to believe me when I tell you I’m playing no games with you. As to who I am, however…” He placed his glass under the absinthe fountain’s tiny spigot and allowed the ice water to drip gently onto the sugar cube. “I’m afraid that is something of a loaded question.”

“Meanin’ you’re not going to tell me.”

“No, I shall,” said the man, keeping his eyes on the trickling water, a soft little almost-smile on his face. “I assure you, I have every intention of answering all your questions as deeply as you might wish. That is, in fact, the entire reason I arranged to bring you here. But I’m afraid I must answer this one in rather a roundabout fashion.”

 _Arranged_ wasn’t a word Spike liked to hear, especially when combined with “welcome to Rome, how may we bugger you today,” a situation he’d found himself in pretty much every time he’d ever come here. It reminded him too much of the Immortal to sit well.

Spike watched the ice water fill the man’s glass for a moment. For a drink whose legends linked it to insanity, the ritual of preparation was actually quite peaceful; start with bright green alcohol, dilute with icy sugar water, watch the color change to milky white as the glass filled, drop by drop.

“Answer me something else then, first,” he said.

“If I can,” said the stranger. Still had that almost-smile on his face, like he was listening to something no one else could hear. Be just Spike’s luck, to find out that the bloke could read his thoughts. Wouldn’t put it past him. He strongly considered thinking some deeply insulting thoughts, just to see if he’d get a reaction, then gave it up as childish.

“What happened to your accent?” he asked instead. Raised an eyebrow as the stranger began to smile. “Sounded Italian when you first got here. Now you sound like a native Brit. Which is it?”

“You are observant,” the man replied. “And you’ve asked another loaded question, believe it or not.” He twisted the spigot closed on the little fountain. “How shall I put this… it’s easy for me to speak both languages equally well, along with any other tongue with Latin as its ancestor.”

“And why’s that?”

“I predate Latin,” he replied simply. “Shall I pour for you as well, or would you prefer to do the honors yourself?”

_I predate Latin._

Spike gritted his teeth and said nothing. That was a hell of clue, wasn’t it? But if Spike was right about who he was talking to, it wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good to say so. Even if he was wrong, Spike was still in the presence of way too bloody much power to be any good for his continued health, and, right _or_ wrong, he’d have no choice but to let the miserable sod play out his little game until it was done.

Instead, he looked pointedly at the remaining glass of absinthe, and his captor graciously moved back to make room for him at the sideboard. Spike stepped up, trying his best to cover his limp and keep the pain off his face, and ignored the stranger while he went through the little ritual.

Resettle the spoon; add a second cube of sugar (partly out of sheer contrariness). Situate it under the absinthe fountain. Let the ice water trickle across the sugar. Watch the green turn to white.

“I apologize for your injury.” Of course the bastard noticed anyway.

“Next time you want to speak to a bloke,” said Spike, “maybe try something besides an explosion and a kidnapping, yeah?”

His host waved a hand in the air dismissively. “You are not a captive here. I wish only to speak with you; there is much you need to learn. All the rest was simply for the sake of appearances.”

“Appearances?” Spike gave up the cool façade. “Bloody _appearances?_ You had one of your lackeys hand us a bloody bomb, and then carted me off with a bag over my head while I was still too dazed to walk a straight line! You tossed me into the boot of a bloody car! What bloody ‘appearances’ are you trying to keep up and who the hell are you trying to fool, here?” He wrenched the little fountain spigot closed. “While we’re on the topic, where the hell are we, where’s sodding Angel, where’s my _coat_ and who the hell are you really?”

The man nodded, as if he’d been expecting exactly this reaction. “We are still in Rome, in one of my quieter residences, away from the worst of the tourist traffic,” he replied. “Angel, Angelus, Liam… well, what he calls himself is part of another topic, I suppose. He is, by now, most likely at the local offices of Wolfram and Hart, being consoled and led about by his sense of self-importance, as easily and as blindly as always; or, possibly he is halfway across the city, still attempting to track down his prize. Less likely, but still possible, he might be at the piazza – either still or again – searching for you.” The man sipped at his drink, closed his eyes contentedly for a moment, opened them to fix Spike with an earnest expression. “Angel is not my concern. He is, in fact, a waste of my time. It is you I have wanted to speak to, for some little while now.”

Well.

Well, that was… actually, Spike wasn’t quite sure what that was. Forthcoming, at least, and informative as far as it went; but his answer opened the way for even more questions.

“As for your coat,” the man continued, “I have it here; it was damaged rather badly, I’m afraid…” He trailed off, and indicated a pile of smudged, tattered, ragged black leather: Spike’s duster.

It was… it was destroyed.

Spike couldn’t help himself; he rushed across the room to where the coat lay, in a little heap on the chaise longue where he’d first woken up. The coat certainly hadn’t been there before, he was pretty sure he’d have remembered lying on it – but this… he held it up. Discovered he could see clean _through_ his coat now, in several places. One sleeve was nearly torn completely off. Spike made a little distressed sound in the back of his throat.

“This – I’ve had this coat for – it was practically – how could –” Begged the question, though: if the coat was in such a state, why wasn’t Spike full of holes too?

“I protected the two of you from the worst of the blast, because even as distasteful as I find Angel I have no intention of ending him. But I was able only to shield your persons, and the flying debris, well…” The git actually sounded sheepish, which had to be faked, a ploy of some kind. “I am certain, with the resources at your disposal, you could easily replace the coat with one identical to it –”

“No such thing,” said Spike. Brushed a bit of grit off the lapels, as if that would do any good whatsoever. His coat!

“Or, if you like, I would certainly be willing to repair it for you. The only reason I have not already done so is that I wanted to give you the choice.”

“Already,” Spike repeated. Looked up from his coat as the thought sank in. “Magic?”

“Yes,” said the gentleman.

“And what’s the price? Gift like that doesn’t come without strings attached.”

“No price,” he replied. “Consider it a gesture of apology, if you must; but I demand nothing in return for the work itself.”

“Sounds like a load of bollocks to me,” Spike sniffed. “What was it you said earlier? You’ve given me no reason to believe a word you say? Yeah, ’s about right. Shred my coat then offer to work your mojo all over it for nothing in return.” He clutched the leather to his chest. “Pull the other one, mate, it’s got bells on. And anyway, you’re just tryin’ to use this as a bloody distraction. Think I’m too thick to notice you still haven’t answered the last part of that question? Who the hell you really are? You might _predate Latin_ , but I’m not exactly a spring chicken m’self.”

“On the contrary,” said the stranger. He had that almost-smile on his face again, and damned if it wasn’t driving Spike right out of his bloody tree. “I credit you with greater intelligence than you likely believe of yourself. Let me offer you a proposal.”

 _Here it comes_ , thought Spike.

“Keep the coat as it is, for now. I will answer your questions, tell you what I brought you here to learn. I do not ask you to believe a word I say, nor to act on any of what I will tell you. Only listen, and at the end of our discussion, you may decide for yourself whether you wish to have me repair your coat for you, or arrange to have it replaced. I shall be happy to do either, no matter how you respond to our conversation.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. There had to be a catch somewhere, but for the life of him, he couldn’t find it. He stuck out his jaw in stubbornness, looking the fellow over, but all he could see was honest sincerity. ‘Course, a bloke with his kind of power could lie his way into a nun’s knickers, if he really wanted to.

“Fine,” said Spike at last. “Get on with it, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Of course,” said the gentleman. “Please, sit.” He brought Spike’s drink to the little side table nearest the chaise longue, along with a couple bottles of whiskey and a pair of clean tumblers, then dragged one of the velvet armchairs closer as well. “As I said, I will tell you who I am, in a roundabout fashion; but surely you have made a guess by now.”

“The bloody Immortal,” grumbled Spike. He sat anyway, because his leg was killing him and because, really, what choice was he likely to actually have?

The man – the… the being – nodded, sipped at his absinthe. “Accurate, as far as it goes, though it tells you nothing of who I really am,” he said.

“It tells me you were the stupid sod who had me thrown in jail last time I was in Rome!”

The Immortal waved his hand, again. “I had you removed from my path, completely unharmed, while I conducted a bit of delicate business which could not be interrupted. In any case, you weren’t there for more than a week, as I recall.”

“Yeah,” said Spike. Fond memories of the escape itself, in fact, now that he thought back on it… but the soul and his newfound conscience brought him up short. “Didn’t leave those prison guards unharmed, though. Nor the other inmates.”

The Immortal shrugged. “Perhaps I needed them removed as well,” he said.

Spike raised his eyebrows at that. His every encounter with the Immortal in the past had led him to an impression of a mocking, shallow, self-absorbed fop who enjoyed flaunting his power and making things difficult for Spike and Angelus while he ran off and shagged their women. This, though – this was a whole other kettle of fish. This was still power, but instead of being flung about sloppily by a wealthy playboy, it was wielded with surgical precision and cold intellect.

“I’ve put in considerable effort to cultivate, and maintain, a certain image of myself,” said the Immortal, his voice quiet and calm. “I permit very few people to see beneath that image. By the end of our conversation, you will be one of those few.”

“I s’pose that explains you were always runnin’ off and shaggin’ our women,” Spike said. “Darla, Drusilla. Buffy. Just cultivatin’ an image, you call it.”

He chuckled. “A bit, perhaps. I will say, however, that I’ve never once taken a woman whose heart belonged to another – and that includes your beloved. I am quite certain she thinks of me only as a distraction from grief; that façade, that image of myself is useful for such things. She has yet to give me her body and I’m not inclined to believe that she will. And she will never give me her heart. We entertain one another, nothing more.”

“Grief?”

“She mourns you,” said the Immortal.

And damn it all, Spike never was as good at hiding his feelings as he’d liked to tell himself, and he knew it. He was sure the Immortal Sod knew it too, but Spike still turned his face away, blinking back tears, feeling his throat click as he swallowed hard.

“She likes to pretend that she does not, but I have seen it,” said the Immortal. “And I believe she knows that. Ms. Summers appreciates that I do not make demands upon her heart, nor expect to have her body in compensation. She suspects that there is more to me than my public face, but she does not choose to look any deeper. As I said, we entertain one another. With me she is… well, she is able to create an image of her own, for those who she believes would not understand her sorrow.”

“Why?” Spike tilted his head to one side, intrigued despite himself. “Why tell me this? Why sleep with Darla and Dru, if it wasn’t about stealin’ our women just because you could? And why let me in on your secrets, if that’s really what you’re planning to do?”

The Immortal’s mouth quirked ruefully. “I have several reasons for nearly everything I do,” he said. “Having you arrested, borrowing Liam’s women, those are simple examples. It is a trait of mine, you could say; or perhaps a side effect of being so old.” He looked at Spike, his smile widening. “However, to give you a few concrete reasons: One, giving you some understanding of who I truly am is necessary, for you to understand what else I wish to tell you. Partly, I want to see how you respond to the information I will give you. Primarily, though, I simply _want_ to show you something of myself. You are adept at, what is the phrase nowadays… calling people on their bullshit? I’ve found that people who possess that skill, and are willing to use it, make valuable friends. And as I’ve said, I have very few people who know me well enough that I can call them friends.”

“You’re saying you had me kidnapped because you wanted a playmate?” Spike asked drily.

The Immortal chuckled. “When you put it that way…” He leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “But no. As I mentioned before, I do not consider Angelus to be worth my time. If the explosion at the piazza had not provided an opportunity, I would have found some other way to speak with you, separately from him. As it is, I was able to bring you here, and also stage an event suitably dramatic to give Angelus another red herring to chase throughout Rome, giving us time to speak without interruption. You see?” He shook his head ruefully. “Multiple reasons.”

Spike thought a moment. Remembered to taste his own absinthe; savored the anise and other aromatics, singing on his tongue.

“I still don’t get what it is about me in p’ticular you changed your mind about, from the last time we crossed paths,” he said finally. “But go ahead.”

“Thank you,” said the Immortal. “Now, then; as I warned you, I’m going to take an indirect approach, but it is necessary and I hope you will humor me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Then, if you would, please indulge me by reciting your lineage,” he said. “Your sire, and hers, and so forth.”

Spike fought the urge to roll his eyes. “William the Bloody,” he sighed, “’cept I prefer Spike; sired by Drusilla, sometimes called ‘the Mad’; sired by Angelus, who was sired by Darla, who was sired by the Master.”

“Interesting, don’t you think, that of the entire lineage only one of you has kept the name you were given as a human?”

“I s’pose,” said Spike. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“In due time,” said the Immortal. “But returning to the Master – do you know who sired him?”

“No one, supposedly,” said Spike. “Story is, he was the first vampire to walk the earth, back in the dawn of humanity. God knows he was ugly enough by the time they made Drusilla present me to him.”

“Very well,” said the Immortal. “Another question: what do you know of the Order of Aurelius?”

Spike cocked his eyebrow. “It’s a cult,” he said. “An extinct one. “S’pose you could say I helped end it.”

“Humor me,” the Immortal repeated. “If you please.”

Looked like the absinthe was a good choice for the night after all, thought Spike, if they were going to be on topics that made no sense and went no direction… He took another swallow, eyed the whiskey bottles on the table. “It wasn’t my thing,” he began. “The Master was all hot for it, though, and Darla too – couldn’t get her to shut up about it for days, anytime she came back from visiting with His Ugliness. All about worshiping the ‘pure ones’ or the ‘old ones’ or whatever they were called – the last pure demons to roam this world before they were banished, shoved back down the throat of the Hellmouth, wherever it was at the time.”

“You remember correctly,” said the Immortal. “What about Aurelius?”

“Don’t remember much,” said Spike. “Order’s named for him, o’course, but I don’t know that he headed it up or anything. He was some sort of prophet. Had visions, I reckon, like Dru does. Somebody wrote them down back in the Middle Ages and decided they were special enough to go into a self-flagellatin’, chanting frenzy over. Somewhere in there the Master got taken in by it all; eventually set himself up as head of the Order by… I dunno, mid-1700s or thereabouts. Way I heard it, he tried to open the Hellmouth once, meanin’ to let the pure demons out, only he got stuck in it instead, like a bloody ugly, bat-faced bung in a barrel – mystically speaking, anyway. Then he escaped, think the Slayer had something to do with that, and tried to open the Hellmouth again, but he wasn’t free more than a few minutes before the Slayer did him in.”

Spike couldn’t help but stop to think about that for a moment: the Slayer, _his_ Slayer, Buffy, had gotten right to it and _ended_ the oldest vampire ever to inflict himself on humanity, before she’d even lost her cherry to Angelus. Before she’d really even come into her own power.

Bloody hell, it was no wonder he’d never really stood a chance against her. She was amazing before they’d even met.

“Anyway,” he forced himself to continue, “this Aurelius bloke, the Order was named for him, but he dusted sometime in the Renaissance, sixteenth century maybe. Darla might have had more detail on it, but I never did pay much attention. Load of bollocks, if you ask me.”

“You don’t believe the Old Ones exist?” asked the Immortal. Spike scoffed.

“No, I know they exist. Hell, I’ve met one, haven’t I, got her trottin’ round wearin’ the face of a woman used to be my friend.” Spike fought to keep the emotion off his face. “But worshiping the old bastards seems like a bad idea, and tryin’ to bring them back – a _vampire_ , a bloody _half-breed_ , trying to bring them back, is just idiotic.” Damn. He’d forgotten himself, started spouting off opinions in front of someone who could far too easily squish Spike like a bug if he happened to disagree.

It was irritating, sometimes, the things the soul made him care about. Never would have bothered him before, would have relished the fight, in fact; but not anymore.

He looked up warily.

“Ahh,” said the Immortal. “A point of view presented honestly, undiluted with the sycophantic need to please me. I cannot tell you how refreshing that is.” He smiled again, cocked an eyebrow at Spike. “As it happens, I agree with you, but for more reasons than you may be comfortable hearing.”

Yeah, yeah, the old sod had been dancing around that same warning all night so far, and Spike was tired of hearing it. If whatever he wanted to say to Spike was that important, he needed to get on with actually bloody saying it. “Try me,” he said.

“Well, to begin with,” said the Immortal, “if the Old Ones were to return, they would eventually turn their attention to me; whether sooner or later, it would be unavoidable, and cause me more hardship than I am willing to tolerate. More importantly for the rest of the world, however, the original prophecies were misinterpreted by the founders of the Order, almost from the very start. Worshiping the Old Ones, attempting to bring about their return, was never meant to be the Order’s goal. And before you ask, yes – I do know, _exactly_ , what the prophecies were intended to predict.”

The ancient being leaned forward in his seat, eyes agleam with _I-know-a-secret_ glee. “I intend to tell you quite a story, young vampire. You may want to brace yourself.”


	5. Chapter 5

Spike leaned back, got comfortable. Stretched his legs out along the chaise and picked up his glass of absinthe, looked over at his… captor? Host?

“It’s funny,” said the Immortal. “After all this time, hoping to meet a vampire like you, discovering your existence, making the necessary arrangements so that we could talk… you would think I ought to be better prepared, and yet, there is so much I wish to share with you, I hardly know where to begin.”

A vampire like him? What was that supposed to mean?

“There’s always the beginning,” said Spike, eyebrow raised.

“Hmm. I think instead I shall start a bit closer to the end,” he replied. “The Order of Aurelius, and who he was. If I am not mistaken, you were human during a time when Latin was still taught in schools, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” said Spike. “It’s funny, though, I’ve had more call to use it as a vamp than I ever did as a human.”

“Indeed,” said the Immortal. “And does your memory tell you what ‘Aurelius’ means in your language?”

He shrugged. “Should be ‘golden’ or something like that.”

The Immortal nodded. “‘Golden’ was less a name for Aurelius and more a… hm. Not quite a _nom de guerre_ , but an earned name rather than one he was born with. Much like your lineage; I know I mentioned it before, but has it ever struck you as odd that the only one of you to keep your true name was Drusilla?”

“Dru suited her just fine,” defended Spike. “It’s who she is. It’s not like she’s in any condition to go inventing new names for herself.”

“No, of course not, but observe: Your mother did not call you ‘Spike’; you earned the name for yourself, and fairly early in your existence as a vampire. Angelus was named because he was said to be a killer with the face of an angel – a conceit, and not one with which I would be inclined to agree, personally. Darla herself – did she ever tell you her true name?”

“You mean it wasn’t Darla?” Spike asked.

“No; but I think I shall wait a moment before I reveal that little gem to you. All in due time,” said the Immortal. “But no – ‘Darla’ means ‘dear one’ and was given to her by the Master. Each of you, apart from your sire, cast away your human existence and took a new name to demarcate the line between your old life and your new existence. As for the Master himself, he had several names, partly due to his age, but not entirely. Like Angelus, most of them were founded in conceit.”

“Always wondered if there was anything more to it than being ‘master’ of the Order of Aurelius,” said Spike.

“He wanted it to be,” said the Immortal. “He wanted to be known as the founder of the entire vampire race; which he was, partly, in the same sense that Adam and Eve are said to have founded the human race, but he wanted it implied that he had somehow _created_ vampires. I know for a fact that he did not.” He sighed. “He became quite taken with the teachings of Aurelius at first, but found that several of those teachings, at least one entire volume of prophecy in fact, contradicted his own opinions on… oh, various things. Vampire supremacy, for instance. The importance of the Pure Ones. He argued with Aurelius, tried to convince Aurelius that the visions must be wrong – he was the oldest vampire to walk the earth, after all, he ought to know whether the prophet’s words held any merit.”

“Arrogant sod,” said Spike. “Fanatical, I gather, by the time I was turned.”

“Indeed,” said the Immortal, “and when the prophet could not be persuaded to clarify his teachings – in other words, to make them fit the worldview he wanted – your ancestor chose to kill Aurelius, take over leadership of the Order, and _make_ the prophecies fit. He even went so far as to refer to his favored descendants, your line as headed by Darla, as the Aurelian lineage of vampires.”

“Always wondered about that,” mused Spike. “There were plenty other vamps in the cult, and far as I knew Aurelius never sired anyone himself. Darla mentioned it once, how the Master was superior because he made more of us while Aurelius sat round with his thumb up his arse –” he coughed, remembering his audience – “at least, in a manner of speaking.”

“The prophet had other priorities,” the Immortal nodded. “Your ancestor did not succeed in becoming Aurelius, but he did everything he could to try. Sat the throne, wore the crown, tried on the robes, if you will. I know he briefly attempted to claim that he’d written the prophecies himself, but too many vampires remembered the real Aurelius for that to succeed. In any case, before long, all reference to the Pure Ones was suppressed, or replaced with falsified or altered scripture referring to ‘Old Ones’ instead.”

“Still think it was bloody stupid to try and bring them back,” said Spike. “I’ve met one – expect you already know that – and even with about ninety percent of her power bled off, she’s still a handful. And despises us half-breeds. I can’t decide whether she hates us more or less than she hates humans.”

“Likely it’s about equal,” the Immortal replied. Little quirk of his eyebrow as he leaned back in his seat, took a long, slow swallow of his absinthe. “After all, you are both as insects to Illyria’s greatness.”

“’S what she tells us often enough, yeah.” Something about the way the Immortal had phrased his answer struck Spike; he caught the words in his mind, played with them, fit them with a couple of other ideas…

“You’re not a vampire, are you?” he asked. “The way you said ‘despises _you_ ’ and not ‘ _us_ ’. Plus if you’re older than bloody Latin, you should be at least as ugly as he was before he bought it. No offense.”

He chuckled. “None taken,” he said. “As I told you, it’s refreshing. And you are correct; I’m not a vampire.”

“Then why are you still hung up on tellin’ me about the Master? Thought we were talkin’ about you. ’S what you said you wanted to tell me.”

“Mm,” said the Immortal. “It is all interrelated. Learning about the Order of Aurelius will tell you something about me, eventually; once you have all the information I wish to share. And it may tell you something about yourself, as well.”

Spike chewed on that thought for a bit. He wasn’t the greatest at telling when someone was lying to him; forget what he’d said earlier, he wasn’t all that good at telling when someone was playing a game with him, either. One would think he’d have picked up that skill, he thought, God knew he’d been yanked around enough times he ought to be better able to recognize it by now…

Still. Either the Immortal was telling him the straight truth (possible), or he was old enough to be a better liar than Spike could hope to see through (likely). Either way, he couldn’t deny the story so far was at least interesting. There were worse things to put up with than a drink and conversation, after getting spirited away while unconscious.

Made his decision.

“What’s the difference, then, between these Pure Ones of yours, and the Old Ones?” asked Spike. “For that matter, how do you know so much about what the real prophecies were meant to be, and all the rest of it?”

“To answer your second question first…” The Immortal sighed. “There was a time when I was known as Aurelius.”

Spike choked on his drink.

“Beg pardon?”

“I, too, have had many names, over the course of my long existence. Some of them are still known, even if they are no longer associated with me. ‘Aurelius’ was one of those names.”

“So you’re sayin’ you wrote those prophecies and the Master tried to kill you?”

“Yes,” said the Immortal – said Aurelius. “The records say that he succeeded. I allowed him to believe he had.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Why would you do that?” asked Spike. A bloke couldn’t help but feel a bit skeptical – this was the git who liked to rub Angel’s nose in it every chance he could, that he was more powerful, had greater influence, could drop a leash round Angelus’ neck anytime he felt like it and yank it hard as he liked.  Why would he just back off from leadership of an order he more or less created, without a fight?

“It was clear I would not be able to persuade him to my point of view,” said Aurelius, “and after some consideration I decided that it may be best to let go of the Order, let it develop how it would. One thing I’ve had plenty of time to learn, as difficult as the lesson has been: no matter how much power I may appear to have, there are still and will always be things beyond my control.”

Yeah, thought Spike. Skeptical. “And you have more than one reason for everything you do,” he said dryly.

“There is that, yes.” The Immortal shrugged. “In the long run, I believe the decision was correct.”

“Yeah, and why’s that?”

“It brought me you.”

Spike narrowed his eyes. Still couldn’t figure out what this bloke was after with him, but all his sincerity was beginning to grate a little. His tone, his expression… they were not deliberately condescending, but still loaded with _I-know-something-you-don’t_ , and there was no way in hell the bloody Immortal wasn’t playing some kind of game. He’d all but admitted it. Games, ploys, maneuvers were just what he _did_ , far as Spike could tell.

His host looked thoughtful for a moment. “I knew your ancestor for a very long time,” he said at length. “Long enough to know the full measure of his pride, and his tenacity once he got hold of an idea and let it take root in his mind. He believed he knew what the prophecies meant, and there would be no persuading him otherwise. And, I admit, in part I was curious to see where his interpretations might take him. It was within the realm of possibility that what I had seen was incorrect, after all.”

“And just what was it you saw?” asked Spike. “You said he altered the original wording and whatnot. What was it really s’posed to be about?”

“The Pure Ones…” Aurelius took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “…are possibly another answer I must give in a roundabout fashion.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike said, disgusted. “Just what exactly are you playin’ at, mate? You go to all this trouble to get me here, go on and on about how much you want to talk to me, then every question that you bloody _insist_ you’re going to answer, you turn right ‘round and backpedal and say _oops, no, din’t mean it, got to get there the long way round, sorry ‘bout that mate_.” He rolled his eyes. “Just bloody get on with it.”

The Immortal frowned for the first time. “Do you really think you would be inclined to listen if I told you that I believe you to be one of the Pure Ones of the prophecy? If I were to simply drop such a statement into your lap without any sort of lead-in to the topic, and no real explanation as to why?”

Oh, sodding hell. That was _just_ what he needed, to be part of some prophecy or other.

“Probably not,” he replied, “though that would have less to do with you bein’ bloody unbelievable and more with you bein’ – you. Certainly doesn’t help, you droppin’ a bag over my head and tossin’ me into the boot of a car. You said to humor you; I’m givin’ you that much.”

“And yet, regardless of the source,” said Aurelius, “even if you felt you could trust me, you would still find all of this unbelievable.”

“Well, yeah,” said Spike, shifting in his seat. “Maybe not all of it. You bein’ the Immortal makes sense. You bein’ Aurelius I can just about buy. Me bein’ part of a sodding prophecy?” He leaned back once more, mindful of his leg, wishing he could have a smoke. “Think I’ve had enough of that bollocks to last awhile. The real prophecies only ever screw with me and mine, and the fake ones… well, they screw with me and mine, too. Not interested.”

Aurelius dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You are referring to the Shanshu.”

“That one – the ones claiming I got some sort of destiny as the Powers’ Champion or some such rot. The ones that end up me drinkin’ a cup of lukewarm piss-yellow _soft drink_. The ones relating to Buffy. At least hers never seem to be fake prophecies, but they still tell ‘er she has to die, or kill ‘er sister, or the like.”

“I was not behind the staged battle for the ‘cup of torment’ or whatever it was called,” said the Immortal, “though I must admit I rather wish I had been. Your grand-sire pursues redemption in the wrong manner, and has lost what guidance he had, either through death or distrust. Being defeated by you was an elegant way to call his attention to that fact. He now regrets the bargain he made with the Senior Partners, as well he should… but feeling trapped, I fear he – well. This has nothing to do with the Pure Ones, but I hope you will permit the diversion for a moment.”

“It’s not like you’re giving me a choice,” Spike muttered, but the Immortal heard him.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I have already told you that you are a guest here, not a captive. So far you have consented to listen to what I have to say. You have agreed to humor me, and I do appreciate it. Sometimes,” he smiled, “sometimes I think I have lost the ability to tell a direct truth, or a straightforward tale. Here, this moment concerning Liam, is yet another bend in the road, I suppose you could say. But everything I tell you tonight is connected, including this. More than that, I think hearing what I have to say about Liam will be important to your survival in the near future.”

Well, that raised the eyebrow a bit. “Almost sounds like a threat,” said Spike.

“Not from me,” said Aurelius. “I no longer have the ability to see the future, but I am in a position to see trends, patterns of behavior that have repeated endlessly over the centuries. I am able to make predictions, based on a great deal of experience watching those patterns play out. Changes are coming. Angelus is going to cause trouble soon, though I’m uncertain of its exact nature. I am keeping a close eye on him in the meantime.”

“Thought you said he was a waste of your time.”

“That doesn’t mean he is insignificant,” the Immortal replied. “If he were unimportant, I would not need to spare him a moment’s thought; he would not take any of my time, much less waste it. Instead, his foolishness has often led me to an unpleasant degree of effort, attempting to mitigate beforehand the damage he may cause, or clean up his messes afterward. I have far more enjoyable things to do; no matter how long my life has been or will be, my time is too short to spend it on the likes of him.”

Spike opened his mouth to answer, then stopped himself. The Immortal had never exactly been a friend to either of them; the fact that he wasn’t trying to screw Spike over this time – at least, not obviously – didn’t mean he was suddenly to be trusted with information he could use against Angel, even if the Great Forehead deserved to have his chain yanked.

Besides it looked as though Spike’s insights wouldn’t be necessary. The Immortal had called it pretty accurately: Angel had suffered enough losses lately that he was beginning to question his place in the world, his own worth in the fight. Spike decided he didn’t need to be dealt yet another blow just now.

“There’ve been some changes lately,” was all he said. “You think he’s planning to do something about… the things he’s dealing with?”

“I do,” said the Immortal. “The portents – the trends, if you will – suggest perhaps an act of rebellion. Knowing his personality, and much of his current predicament, I can’t hold out much hope that he will choose anything other than an exercise in futility. Or, no. Let me rephrase. His actions may carry lasting impact but… I predict that they will ultimately lead to his demise, and possibly yours. Assuming the rebellion I foresee were actually successful, he would still leave the field of battle before he could enforce the terms of his victory. Ultimately, for him at least, the struggle would be futile – a grander and more dramatic suicide than most, but nothing more.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You think he’s suicidal.”

“I think he does not have your familiarity with adapting his plans on the fly,” said the Immortal, “nor your skill in fighting his way out of a corner – and make no mistake, he is cornered now and he knows it. Angelus can make intricate plans; can orchestrate events, given enough time to do so…”

“Drusilla,” said Spike. He’d heard the story enough times, from all three of the others in their own fashions.

“Just so,” said Aurelius. “But he has almost no expertise in entering into a battle whose outcome is not certain. Angelus has always preferred fights where victory was a given.”

Spike couldn’t help the smile that flickered just then. He’d said it himself, once, just barely past being a fledgling himself: _Don’t you ever get tired of fights you know you’re gonna win?_

“Because of that,” the Immortal went on, “because he is accustomed only to engagements with a predetermined outcome, he will enter into this fight convinced that victory is impossible; that in fact his death is the only certainty, and that the best he can hope for is to do as much damage as possible on his way to meet his end.” He paused, took a slow drink, looked Spike in the eye. “Regardless of how he chooses to meet destruction, I would much prefer it if he did not take you with him.”

“Because of this prophecy you’re on about,” said Spike. “This ‘Pure Ones’ bollocks that you think applies to me.”

Aurelius shrugged. “I was not certain at first that it was you my visions foretold, but recent events strongly suggest it, yes.”

Spike scowled. Wanted to tell him to just get on with it, but it was clear that the Immortal liked to tell stories in his own time – or at least, liked to hear himself talk. There was still a large part of Spike half-convinced that his host was just stalling him here, so he could screw with Angel somewhere the other side of town without Spike getting in the way. That part of him kept whispering that this was all an entertaining story at best and a bizarre trick at worst; but even so, he thought. Even so, it’d be better to know, yeah? Forewarned, forearmed, and all that. Whatever this story was supposed to be about, if it were real, it’d be better to know.

So he waited, and eventually Aurelius said, “I find it interesting that all the vampires of your lineage – the males, at least – have been fascinated by purity in one way or another, throughout your lives, although each of you sought it out and responded to it in different ways.” His mouth quirked. “And each of you sought it in female form.”

“Meanin’ what?” Spike asked. Entertaining, he reminded himself. Should at least be entertaining.

“The Master sought to control and possess purity, and ultimately showed himself to have a limited, surface understanding of the concept. Liam sought to corrupt and destroy it. And you, William… you fell in love with it.”

“You’re talking about the Slayer,” said Spike. He tensed, waiting for the mockery to begin. Who got to be with Buffy and who wasn’t worthy of her; which of them was the bigger, better, badder man…

“No, actually,” said the Immortal, “although she makes for an excellent illustration of the point as well. As a warrior for the light, Ms. Summers does indeed embody purity, and each of you has not only had dealings with her, you each responded to her consistently to your norms. The Master sought to control her power for his own, Angelus sought to destroy her. But no – I was originally thinking of the women they turned.”

“Darla and Dru?”

“Of course.”

Spike frowned and leaned back against the chaise. “I can see Drusilla…” he said, and he could. Dru had been an innocent before Angelus had gotten hold of her, blessed, even, and he’d systematically broken her – heart, spirit, and mind – before finally breaking her body, and then turning his “masterpiece” so he could keep her around as a sodding trophy, a walking-talking-shrieking embodiment of his depravity for him to admire and use at his leisure. “But Darla was a whore,” he finished. “She used to brag about it.” Taught a fledgling William a hell of a lot, too, whenever Angelus was busy or she was bored.

Aurelius chuckled. “Do you recall when I mentioned that ‘Darla’ was not her real name?” he asked. “The nickname wasn’t in common usage until nearly a century after her turning.”

Spike nodded. “Yeah, so?” Took a mouthful of absinthe and savored it before swallowing.

“She ended her human life in the Virginia Colony, in 1609,” said the Immortal. “They tended to name their children for virtues, in those days. To this day Liam does not know her human name, but she told me, and I’ve since confirmed it: she was born and baptized Purity Constance Abigail Hutchens.”

Spike blinked, then snorted. “Purity,” he said. Took another drink to keep the smirk from showing.

Aurelius smiled. “Your ancestor refused to look at anything beyond the surface meanings, the simplest interpretations, of the prophecies which the Order held in trust. He took the notion of the Pure Ones literally, and turned Darla in part because of her name.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Spike. There was no way the Master had been that simple.

“Well, I think he was also pleased with the irony behind the fact that her virtue, as a prostitute, was negotiable or nonexistent, despite her given name.” He sighed. “By that time he had already ‘killed’ me and moved on to worship of the Old Ones, but I suspect he also pursued Miss Hutchens as a way of, oh, ‘hedging his bets’, I suppose you could say. As much as he came to cherish Darla, he was nevertheless disappointed when he realized she was not, in fact, anything like the beings described in the scriptures.”

“Which description you have yet to _get to_ ,” prompted Spike.

Aurelius chuckled.

“That is because I am not completely certain myself what you will become, despite the visions I had so long ago,” he said. “I have been mistaken, and recently, about the arrival of the Pure Ones. At first I believed the vampire who Angelus sired earlier this century – the naval officer –”

“Lawson? From that submarine?”

“Him, yes,” said Aurelius. “He was turned while Angelus was still under the influence of his curse, and it affected him indirectly. Mr. Lawson was not like other vampires, and until he was destroyed I thought perhaps he was the first Pure One.” He shook his head, looked thoughtful for a moment. “The best I can tell you is that the Pure Ones are what vampires were meant to be. Vampires themselves were… well. I have told you something of the Order of Aurelius; now permit me to travel farther back, and tell you something of your ancestor.”

“The Master.”

“Hm.” The Immortal gave him a sardonic look. “So he called himself. Do you remember my pointing out that none of you save Drusilla has kept your human name, past becoming a vampire?”

“Yeah,” said Spike.

“It may be more accurate to say that you keep your human names, but put them away and take on new ones,” said Aurelius. “Your ancestor, the ‘Master’, had several, some earned but most founded in conceit. Do you happen to know what his human name may have been?”

“Mostly remember I used to irritate the hell out of Darla by callin’ him Henry,” said Spike. “Heinrich, I think it was. Heinrich Nest.”

The Immortal shook his head, amused but still with that wry twist to his mouth. “It sounds like a perfectly reasonable human name,” he said, “but in fact it is also one he chose for himself. His existence predated the German language. Another conceit, along with calling himself ‘master’.” He sighed, sipped at his drink. “It always annoyed me, the conceit – the bloated sense of self-importance that he passed down through his offspring, and especially your lineage. Liam inherited it in full measure; I find him tasteless and irritating because of it, to say nothing of his responses in the presence of purity.”

“If we’re so irritating,” said Spike, “then why –”

“You outgrew it,” smiled the Immortal. “And inherited less of it to start with, which I suspect is thanks to Drusilla’s nature.”

“You mean her bein’ a lunatic.”

He shrugged. “Just as Liam’s curse affected Samuel Lawson’s nature when he was turned, I believe Drusilla’s nature affected yours,” he said. “She is the closest thing to an innocent that any vampire can be. She remains unaware of the reality of what she does, much less the right or wrong of it… but enough for now of her. I am more interested in telling you about Heinrich Nest. You see, he chose both that name and the title of “master” in an attempt to distance himself from his maker.”

“Is this where you tell me he wasn’t the first vampire to walk the earth, the oldest to ever afflict humanity, or whatever pretty description the Watchers have cooked up for him lately?”

The Immortal leaned back and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He was the first… _successful_ vampire,” he said finally, “the first being that anyone might be able to recognize as a vampire. There were other creatures before him, but they were flawed attempts. There are several species of lesser demons who owe their existence to those failures.”

“Who the hell made him, then?” Couldn’t help but wonder what sort of depraved god had thought bloodsucking, undead corpses were a good idea.

“I did.”


	8. Chapter 8

Spike was struck speechless. He sat up slowly, eyes widening as he searched the Immortal’s face for any clues that he was lying, or joking, or… or boasting or blowing smoke out his arse, or anything else.

He wasn’t.

The Immortal was the sodding creator of the entire vampire race.

“I created the being that humanity came to call ‘vampire,’ and even though that creation was not what I truly hoped for, I chose not to make any further attempts to perfect it. The power used was difficult to control and devastated the region, so I decided the risk was too great to try again. I chose instead to step back, and permit vampires to develop, to evolve if you will, on their own.”

There were too many thoughts crowding Spike’s mind, fighting to get past his shock. His voice was hoarse when he finally managed to speak.

“H-how long… when was this?”

“It’s difficult to tell exactly,” said the Immortal. “Calendars were measured differently then; however, current scientists date the Santorini volcanic explosion to anywhere between 1600 and 2000 BC.”

Spike swallowed.

“They’re called Minoans, nowadays,” said the Immortal; “advanced for their time, peaceful. The eruption virtually erased an entire island, though I managed to warn them of what was coming, in time for them to evacuate. Plato wrote of it, much later, describing the fall of Atlantis; though of course many of the facts were badly distorted by then.”

 _Bloody hell…_ Spike wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the words aloud or not. The Immortal didn’t react, in any case; he spoke quietly, with a low intensity, and kept his eyes on his hands. His accent had shifted again, to something Spike couldn’t quite place. He suspected that was because the original language had been dead for millennia.

“The human he had been was a friend of mine. His name was Nestor; you may recall the name from Homer’s _Iliad_ – but before you ask, no, they were not the same person. But Nestor was my friend, as much as humans can be, at least. He was dying, and he hoped, as did I, that he would be granted eternal life. Instead, he was killed, and I created a new kind of demon that could dwell within and animate his corpse. The process – the power required was enormous, and in my struggles to control it, I slipped, briefly. I am not entirely sure what happened; either my lapse in control triggered the Santorini eruption, or the release of power itself was similar enough as to make no difference. When he rose, he was… it was almost him. Almost. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy him. I’ve never been able to destroy a vampire, not in all the centuries since. I’ve arranged for them to be killed by others, but I could never do it myself.”

Spike felt a pang, unwilling and entirely unwelcome, remembering the night his mother rose.

“And as it turned out, Nestor was not alone. Archeologists have noted that there is a distinct lack of evidence that anyone was killed when the eruption took place, unlike Pompeii, for example, where there were body-shaped hollows throughout the solidified ash, in the streets, sheltering under bridges, everywhere. Not at Santorini. Most of the people living there evacuated the island, sailed to safety on Minos or other islands. Most, but not all. When the power escaped me, when the volcano exploded, they were killed… a few dozen people, all told. A few days later, they all rose, too. They were a completely new kind of demon and were unaware, I think, of their own weaknesses – or perhaps just the hazards of this world – and most were caught in the sun, very shortly after they emerged from the ashes and the rubble. Some survived; I learned later that a total of eighteen vampires eventually fled the island, not including Nestor.”

Nineteen, thought Spike. The Devil’s number, in medieval numerology. Six-six-six, plus one.

“He and the rest went on to found the lineages through which all vampires today can trace their ancestry. Only two or three survived more than a few hundred years, including my… what _had been_ my friend. Apart from Nestor, I avoided them. Tried not to learn their names, where possible.”

The Immortal – the sodding creator of the vampire race – sat back in his chair and, for just a moment, looked tired. Sad.

Spike thought the bloke might have sat there for hours just pondering or reminiscing or whatever the hell it was, but Spike was having none of it. Didn’t matter how bloody powerful he was, a fella couldn’t drop a bombshell like that one and then just let it go.

Every vampire in the world could trace its lineage back to somebody who rose the same night as the Master, and they were an _accident_. All the bloodshed, all the terror and despair and mayhem they had wrought, for thousands of years, just because a ridiculously powerful sorcerer… slipped. Jogged his elbow at the wrong moment. Maybe even just bloody _sneezed_ , for God’s sake.

“Bloody hell,” Spike said softly. The Immortal blinked, pulled himself out of his reverie to look at Spike. “You… you made us.”

“Yes,” said the Immortal.

“Bloody hell,” he repeated. “ _Why?_ ”

“…I was lonely,” said Aurelius. “Which may sound like a ridiculous excuse, until you learn just how long I have walked this earth in… relative solitude.”

“Do I even want to know?” asked Spike. He remembered his drink, stared at it in consternation for a second before tossing the entire thing back like a shot of gin. It burned, the anise stung his sinuses, but it still didn’t diminish the shock of what he’d just learned.

The entire vampire race!

“I did promise you a complete answer to your question,” Aurelius said wryly. “To tell you who I am and why you are here. And the answer to this one is… well, to be roundabout again – how much do you know about your companion, Illyria?”

Spike choked. “What the hell are you saying?”

“I think you already know,” he replied, “but humor me anyway, if you would.”

Spike swallowed hard; snagged one of the bottles of whiskey off the table and bypassed the elegant crystal tumblers completely as he bit the cork, spat it out, and took a long pull, and then another. Shame to waste quality liquor like that, but whiskey was often kept for medicinal purposes, and Spike had just declared it medically necessary for him to be a lot less sober, if he was to get through this conversation.

“We went to the Deeper Well,” he said finally, “Angel and me. The Old Ones are imprisoned there, driven out of this world at… at the dawn of humanity.”

“Yes,” said the Immortal. “Some Old Ones departed this dimension to escape imprisonment. Illyria has likely told you something about the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart, for instance. Nearly all the others were bound; those who could be destroyed were, and the rest were placed in the Deeper Well.”

“Illyria is an Old One,” said Spike. “’S where she was, before.”

“Yes.”

“You said –” he stopped to gulp down another mouthful of whiskey. “You said ‘nearly’ all of them were caught.”

“Do you recall the difficulty it had –”

“It?”

“Illyria. Biological sex is irrelevant to the Old Ones, much less cultural gender definitions,” he explained. “Regardless of the shape of the shell it now wears, Illyria is no more female than… than a clump of algae. A colony of bacteria. The notion simply doesn’t apply.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.”

“As I was saying, however – do you recall the difficulty it had recently, attempting to contain itself within the human shell?”

Spike nodded, warily. “We had to bleed some of it off,” he said, “leave her weaker than she was. Than _it_ was, I guess. Wes said there was so much extra power there that it was messing with the flow of time. That if we didn’t do something, she – it – might have destroyed itself, taken the entire West Coast with it.”

The Immortal licked his lips, looked at the far wall. “There is an event, studied to some degree by archaeologists, paleontologists, and geologists, that took place in what is now the Dakhla Oasis region of the Egyptian desert. They have determined that a meteor entered the earth’s atmosphere and exploded a few miles above the ground, leaving widespread destruction but no crater. To this day it is possible to find glass there, formed when the desert sands were melted in the blast. There is evidence that the earliest humans used the glass, made tools and arrowheads from it, jewelry, beads. Much more recently, a bit of desert glass was carved into a scarab and used as the centerpiece to an elaborate pectoral – a kind of necklace – for Tutankhamen.

“As far as the scientists have been able to determine, this meteor explosion, this ‘air burst’ as they call it, took place between one and two hundred thousand years ago,” he said softly, “a time frame which neatly encompasses the emergence of the first creatures to be recognizable as people, as modern-day humans. The dawn of humanity.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Look mate,” said Spike, a bit desperately, “you’ve been roundabout in your answers all night, but I think now’s the time to bloody stop.” He took another swig of the whiskey, noting that the bottle was already nearly half gone. “You said you had something to tell me, and _I_ said begin at the beginnin’, and _you_ said you’d start more recent and then you worked your way backward. Bloody hell I think you’re as far backward as I can stand at this point.”

The Immortal, thank every god, nodded. “I am. This is the beginning of my tale. You are the only other creature currently in existence to know the entirety of who – of what – I am. This is information you could use to destroy me, William, given a little effort. I’m sharing it with you because I think you won’t do that.”

“You have more than one reason for everything,” rasped Spike.

He nodded again. “Knowing about me may tell you something about you. And… someday, perhaps, I may want you to use what you know, to help end me.”

Spike blinked. Opened his mouth to say something and couldn’t. Blinked again, rapidly.

“Earlier, I told you that nearly all the Old Ones were either bound or destroyed, except for those few who fled the dimension, never to return. There was another option, and I took it.” Aurelius looked Spike in the eye. “Whether it was cowardly, brave, audacious, stupid… I suppose that is all up to you to judge.”

Spike swallowed heavily. “You… that meteor thing you just mentioned. That was – that was you.” He had to stop and clear his throat. “Y-you – the thing with the West Coast. Bleeding off extra power. You did that.”

The Immortal nodded.

“You’re a –” Christ, did he have to say it out loud? “You’re an Old One.” The thought that wouldn’t quit rattling around in his brain was _Jesus sodding Christ on a bicycle, there’s two of them._

Aurelius smiled. “I was,” he said gently. “Not anymore.”

“Not _anymore_?” Spike repeated. “How the – what the hell do you mean, ‘not anymore’, you’re older than bloody Neanderthals unless you’re just making…”

And then the realization struck. “That’s it, innit?” he said slowly. “You’re just making this up. Trying to wind my springs, you are.”

The Immortal, git that he was, laughed. Not a suave little chuckle, either – took one look at Spike’s face and burst out laughing. Spike felt the stab of humiliation in his gut as if it’d been an actual blade.

“Oh come on,” said Spike, “you’ve got to be bloody kidding me!” Of _course_ it wasn’t the straight truth. He should’ve bloody known the bastard was yanking his chain all this time, he thought bitterly. No, couldn’t possibly be anything like honesty in the supernatural world, this was all just another part of the whole grand “screw with Angel and Spike” plan that the Immortal _always bloody followed_ where they were concerned. He shouldn’t have been surprised; was, if anything, disgusted with himself for allowing himself to get sucked in. Spike lurched to his feet, felt his leg start to scream at him again when he tried to put weight on it. “ _Fucking_ hell!”

If there was one thing William the Bloody absolutely _hated_ , it was being treated like a gullible fool. The joke of the party.

Injuries or no, soul or no soul, he found himself very suddenly in the mood for a great deal of violence.

“It is no joke, I promise you,” said the Immortal. “I could even prove the truth of my story, if you like. I’ve kept mementos.”

“Sod your bloody mementos, you unbelievable wanker. So you’ve got a bunch of artifacts – so have sodding museums,” said Spike, disgust dripping through every word. Fists clenching, opening again. His vision had already sharpened, the eyes no doubt already gone to pale gold.

“Not with my fingerprints on them,” he replied. “Not in my handwriting, eons before writing was invented by humans.”

Spike snarled, felt a flicker of embarrassment at how far his control was slipping. Didn’t care. The tips of his fangs were pricking at his lip and he was itching to sink them into the wanker’s neck. See how much power the git really had when he sucked some of it out of him.

Absolutely _hated_ being made the butt of a joke.

The Immortal set his drink aside and rose from his seat, calm as you please. Spike braced himself, lips curling back from his teeth and his fists coming up slowly; angry as he was, he hadn’t forgotten just how much sodding power this wanker held at his fingertips. This wouldn’t be a fight so much as a royal buggering, but damn it all, he’d –

“I apologize,” said the Immortal.

Spike froze, growled under his breath.

“We don’t know one another well,” he continued; “I have done what I can to learn about you, but I forgot that you as yet know very little about me – well, apart from the impression you’ve gained from our past encounters. I had forgotten, during our conversation, that you not only have little reason to believe or trust me, but that you, yourself, hate the very notion that you might have been played for a fool. Of course you would believe that I was mocking you; I have given you little reason before now to believe that I would not do such a thing. I assure you, however, that I was not. I will not.”

Spike glared and said nothing… but nothing in the Immortal’s face or stance or even smell hinted at deception ( _he’s old enough to hide a lie from the likes of you,_ his mind whispered), nor mockery nor even humor. He just stood there, calm as you please, earnest look on his face, waiting to see how Spike was going to react.

And how was he going to react? He was bloody shaking from confusion, anger, the desire to deny warring with the desire to believe.

“I take pleasure from a good tale, and a good audience, perhaps as much as you do,” said Aurelius. “The more so if the tale itself is true. I enjoy your reactions, your responses – but I truly regret the perceived insult.”

A memory: Dawn, made to wait in Spike’s crypt for her safety, bored and pouting at first but later hanging on his every word as he told her of the places he’d been, things he’d seen… outrageous deeds he had done.

Spike got his breathing back under control; after a few deep inhalations, he allowed his eyes to bleed back to their human form. That preternatural sharpness, the way certain colors grew more intense and all light seemed brighter… he allowed that to fade, and he let the Immortal sod see the change.

Still glared at him with his human eyes, though.

Spike wasn’t going to apologize for being angry. He wasn’t. But he would make himself look away after a moment, take another deep slow breath in, let his fists and his jaw ease their tension.

The Immortal turned aside as well, saying nothing; opened the second bottle of whiskey and poured a small measure into each tumbler. Age-old cues, those were, demonic and human alike, going back to the time before humans were humans. _Let us not show our aggression by staring. Let us not threaten one another. Let us share our food and drink._

Hell, if he were telling the truth the Immortal might well have invented the gesture itself.

Spike didn’t want to reject the Immortal’s olive branch, but he needed something else before he could settle. He collected his glass of absinthe, already emptied, and limped across to the sideboard.

Allowing his host to see his injury was just as much a signal of peace as the offering of hospitality. _Let us not do battle. There is no need to hide our weaknesses from one another._ Did Aurelius really create the universal courtesies? _Nah,_ Spike thought. _Aggression’s aggression in lots of species. Turning aside from it looks the same in most of ‘em._

Pour the bright green liquor. Settle the spoon; place a cube of sugar, or two; slide the glass under the spigot of the absinthe fountain. Breathe, even though he didn’t need to, and study the tapestry in front of him for a bit.

Let the ice water trickle down and melt the sugar as the room’s grandfather clock chimed, out of sight behind him.

Watch the green turn to white.

Throughout the little ritual the Immortal didn’t say a word. When he was finished, Spike collected his drink and took a long swallow before he limped back to the chaise and sat back down, grateful for the silence but uncertain whether he should prompt the conversation or not.

What the hell would he say, anyway?

Aurelius cleared his throat politely. “I agreed with you a moment ago, when you said that we had gone as far back in my tale as we could. I think now it is time for me to put events in their proper order.”


	10. Chapter 10

Spike settled himself and waited, while the Immortal swallowed his whiskey and refilled his own glass.

“You were correct in your guess,” he said eventually. “I am an Old One. Or rather, I was.”

“It’s the part where you say you’re not anymore that trips me up,” said Spike. His voice was quieter than he liked it, subdued; but then, he’d dealt with that a lot since he’d got his soul back.

“It was the change,” said Aurelius. “The shedding of all the extra power, so that I could remain in this form. I am simply not now what once I was.” He waved a hand, as if batting the thought aside. “But more on that in a moment. I am attempting, finally, to tell the story from the beginning and we’re not at that part yet.”

Spike made a face. Still, the fella had a point, so he took a swallow of his drink and said nothing.

“The Old Ones ruled the earth, ruled dimensions in fact, from time immemorial,” said the Immortal; “almost, but not quite, from the moment of creation itself. But it turned out that there were Powers still greater than ourselves, and these beings decided that our time had come to an end. Naturally, we refused to acquiesce.”

“Naturally,” said Spike. Wasn’t like he would know for certain, but if Illyria’s sunny disposition were any indication then he could guess how well the rest of them might have taken any sort of denial of their wishes.

Immensely powerful beings could throw immensely powerful tantrums, he supposed.

Aurelius sipped at his whiskey. “I use the term literally,” he said. “The Old Ones were…” He thought for a moment. “The closest image I can give you would be something like a large jar full of crabs, all climbing one another toward the mouth of the jar and escape. We were eternal, and we were eternally at war with one another. We were endlessly destructive, and we didn’t care.”

“You said escape,” said Spike. “Escaping what?”

The Immortal gave a dry chuckle. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. Like the crabs in the jar, we battled constantly for supremacy, simply because it was in our nature to do so.  Climbed one another, I suppose you could say, but toward no other end. The main thing I wish for you to understand is that we battled, we warred, we were conquered or victorious – but we never conceded defeat. We never surrendered. To be informed by the Powers that this or any dimension would be closed to us? To accept that there were any beings greater than ourselves at all?” Aurelius snorted. “As with the climbing crabs, the notion of simply stepping aside to _allow_ another to pass, to enforce their will instead of ours, was unthinkable – in most cases literally.”

Having met Illyria, Spike had no trouble believing that. “So what happened?”

“The inevitable,” said Aurelius, with a little shrug. “There was a battle, shockingly one-sided; and when it concluded the Old Ones were destroyed, or had fled the dimension, or were removed to the Deeper Well to sleep for eternity. While there may be some few left who exist in exclusively demonic dimensions, they are entirely barred from any reality which houses life. Even your Senior Partners may only communicate with this dimension through the Conduit; they may not come here directly.” He paused, took a swallow whiskey and a long, slow intake of breath. “I, however, did not wish to go. I chose instead to… to change.”

The Immortal blinked, glanced away, his expression thoughtful and faraway. “Change… it comes so easily to you, William, you and humanity in general. Not to us. I am not certain you can understand how novel it was to even consider such a thing. The Old Ones were eternal. We were unchanging, and all-powerful; we did not bend _ourselves_ to any pressure, the world changed to suit _our_ will. The world itself was meaningless, in fact, completely insignificant in any way other than as a place to put our feet. Why should we care if we obliterated something so far beneath our notice? If we had had a language that could be expressed in words, we would not have had a term for ‘adaptation’. It was… it was as much an impossibility as dividing by zero.”

“Sounds fun,” said Spike dryly.

Aurelius chuckled. “To a point,” he replied. “It does seem nice, in theory, doesn’t it? The thought of having such power that you could obtain whatever you wanted, with no other effort than desiring it? But our existence was never that easy. You see, peace and fulfillment were not in our vocabulary, either.” He shook his head. “Endless war, endless scrambling for supremacy, and all of it ultimately pointless. It is good that we were stopped, if only because of how wasteful we were of our energies.” He smiled suddenly, as a though struck him. “Do you recall any Greco-Roman mythology, from your human education?” he asked.

Spike looked at him dubiously. “Maybe a little…”

“Consider if you will the stories of the Titans, and how they were overthrown by the gods at the beginning of history,” said the Immortal. “In those myths you could replace any mention of the Titans with the Old Ones, and for the gods you could substitute the Powers, and the story you ended up with would not be that far off from what actually happened.”

“So the Powers, or whatever, overthrew you,” said Spike. “And you, individual you, did what? Changed… how?”

“When the final battle was upon us,” he said, “when the time came to choose between destruction, exile, or imprisonment, I did as you might – I created another option.” He smiled at Spike, eyebrow raised in a little salute. “I chose camouflage. I – well, to be blunt, I hid. Disguised myself as a being so insignificant that those who sought my kind would never think to look for me among them.”

“So you found some poor sod and infected him, is that it?”

“Actually, no,” said Aurelius. “What I did… well, let me be roundabout, one more time.”

Spike gave him a look.  Finished his absinthe and reached for the tumbler of whiskey still waiting for him on the side table. Said nothing.

“I am given to understand that you spent some time after your return bodiless, without solid form.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. There were parts of that experience he had no interest in sharing or elaborating on, let the Immortal push as hard as he liked. No particular desire to recall being pulled into hell every time he winked out of existence.

“Yeah…” was all he said, dragging out the word warily.

“From what little I was told, after a time you learned how to manipulate objects on this plane, despite being incorporeal, is that not so?”

“Yeah,” he repeated. “Had to want it bad enough. Had to concentrate. But yeah.”

Aurelius nodded in satisfaction. “Another reason I believe you to be a Pure One, from the prophecies,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. He looked directly at Spike, his voice intent, eyes alight. “It wasn’t magic, what you did,” he said. “There were no spells or incantations. What you accomplished, small though it may have seemed to you, should nevertheless have been impossible. Yet you did it.”

“So I managed to pick up a coffee cup,” said Spike. “Throw a punch now and again. What’s your point?”

“It wasn’t magic,” said Aurelius. “It was _will_. You learned to exert your will upon the world.” He leaned back and indicated himself with a sweep of his hand. “I took human form in the same way – I _willed_ it, and it was so.”

Spike took that in, frowned in thought. “Something I remember,” he said slowly, “something that’s been nagging at me. Your reputation. Your… persona, I guess. You’re famous for not likin’ magic. Think it’s dirty, or some such. That’s the story, anyway. But you popped in here, did the bit with the ice water, my coat. Called it a parlor trick.” He tilted his head, thinking it through. “Was that – was that this _will_ of yours, too?”

The Immortal smiled widely. “And you claim you’re not the brightest,” he said. Spike would almost have thought he sounded proud. “But yes. It was that, precisely. And now that you’ve learned how, you could do the same, with a little practice.”

Spike’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not all ghosty anymore, mate. Not sure it’s –”

“Has it occurred to you try, since regaining solid form?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my readers for being patient while Real Life (tm) caught up with me. Here are four chapters in a row to make up for the delay.


	11. Chapter 11

“Uh, _no_ ,” said Spike. Immortal had to be some sort of idiot, or else not know him very well at all. “Even if I thought it’d work. Magic has consequences. Doesn’t matter if it isn’t magic,” he said. “It’s a shortcut. It’s cheating. Bend reality and eventually it’ll snap. Try to pull it out of shape and it’ll rebound backwards, slap you right in the face.”

“You think yourself incapable,” said Aurelius.

“Doesn’t matter what I think, I’m not a god. No interest in bein’ one, neither.” Spike looked away, worked his jaw. “Seen what happens when power goes to someone’s head,” he said quietly. “And she was a good person to start with. Me, I’m not.”

“You’re better than you think,” said his host, and Spike rolled his eyes. “You were the Champion who closed the Hellmouth, you were the–”

“Doesn’t matter and you’re off topic,” he warned. “Soul might make me better at resistin’ temptation. Might’ve done a couple good deeds in the last year or so. Old Grandpop might like to think otherwise, but none of that erases the century of blood and brawlin’ I had before that. Cut a right swath, I did. Helping the Slayer doesn’t change that. Doesn’t bring back any of the dead, doesn’t lay any of my sins to rest or erase any of my crimes.”

“No, said Aurelius, “no, it doesn’t. But the fact that you understand that, when your grandsire still hasn’t figured it out despite his obsession with redemption, is very telling.”

This was a topic they could get off any time now, thought Spike. Most of the good he’d done, he’d done hoping to win Buffy’s affections; then to atone for the wrong he’d done to her. None of it was good for its own sake. Even the bit he’d gotten manipulated into by that Lindsey bloke, or Doyle, whatever he called himself – he’d had to be talked into it, hadn’t he? It’d been what he thought he was supposed to do, not what he wanted. Not what felt right. And it hadn’t worked, had it? Spike would never be worthy of her. He knew that now. Didn’t appreciate hearing anyone trying to sugarcoat his past, or his motives for changing.

He knew what he was.

“So you willed yourself into a human shape,” he said. “That’s how you’re not ugly as old Batface? Not just that you’re not a vampire.”

“Indeed,” said Aurelius. “In fact, it took me some time to realize, but my form changes gradually, depending on where I live and for how long. I blend in; reshape myself, unconsciously, and take on the most average features of the population around me. That is how I first earned the name Aurelius, in fact; when I first came to live on the islands of the Aegean Sea, I had previously spent a few centuries in the far north and had become blond and blue-eyed. Compared to the people around me, I was quite ‘golden’. Now, I look generically Mediterranean. It’s only conscious effort that keeps me identifiably male.” He smirked at the expression on Spike’s face. “The human species is slightly more than half female, after all. I may not truly be an Old One any longer, but the notion of gender is still just as irrelevant.”

And now Spike understood fully the phrasing that Buffy and her gang had liked to use, wanting to scrub one’s brain or use brain bleach or some such. He’d give a lot to erase that fact and the accompanying thoughts, and images, from his mind.

“You bled off most of your power, though,” said Spike, yanking the conversation back on topic. “Making yourself human – or human-shaped, anyway – took a lot out of you, if I understand you right.”

“You do, more or less,” said Aurelius. “Changing my shape would not have been enough to hide me from the Powers. When I changed form, it was necessary that I also shed most of the power that made me what I was. That was the event that led to the formation of all that green glass in the sands of the Dakhla Oasis. What I became was still far more than human, but far less than what I had always been.”

“I’ve seen how well Illyria took to the notion,” said Spike. “ _Not thrilled_ would be putting it mildly.”

The Immortal chuckled. “Indeed,” he said. “It was not what I would have preferred, obviously, but… well. Humans created a lovely proverb that describes it perfectly: _In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king._ I had not anticipated it, believe it or not. I simply wanted to survive, and I succeeded. The battle raged and I went unnoticed by the Powers or my fellows. And then, once they were gone, I discovered that, even as diminished as I was, I had still become by default the most powerful being in this world. Possibly within this dimension.”

“Lucky you.”

“On the surface,” said the Immortal. “I was, however, the _only_ such being in this world. I did not dare attempt to leave for fear that the energy I put forth would attract the attention of the Powers. I had chosen to blend in among the most intelligent species on land and could no longer change back to my original form. But humankind would not even learn to speak for another fifty thousand years. I was entirely alone.”

Spike blinked, sat up in his chair. To be alone, in his own personal opinion, was its own special kind of hell. The closest he’d ever come was when he’d been chipped, cut off from his own kind, unable to hunt, and reviled by Buffy and her little pals. But even then, even when he was hated, he’d still been hated _by other people_.

So, no, he realized; that was wrong. The closest he’d really come was that horrible period between gaining his soul and being found by Buffy, once he’d made his way back to Sunnydale. The guilt, the terror when the voices and hallucinations and nightmares overtook him, the knowledge that he was utterly lost and beyond redemption and there was no one who would even care to look for him, much less rescue him… yeah, thought Spike. That was hell. It’d driven him insane after only a few short weeks.

The Immortal may not have had any guilt to deal with, but he’d been alone, and tormented with the _illusion_ of company for… millennia. Eons.

Spike shivered.

“How’d you survive it?” he asked.

“Poorly,” said Aurelius. “I tried, at first, to continue as I always had. To rule, to subjugate. I failed, of course. One cannot rule animals, no matter how intelligent they may be. One can tame them, dominate a single troupe of elevated primates, but then what? How do you convince one group of apes to attack another, to acquire land and resources, when they are nomadic, have not invented agriculture, and need only food, water, fire, and sharpened rocks?” He shook his head with a little rueful laugh. “In some ways, I was an idiot.”

Spike raised an eyebrow, fought a smile. “Bit humble for an Old One, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had time to learn,” he replied, with another laugh. “And it took quite a bit of time indeed. You see, after ruling humans failed, I tried teaching them. How to speak, how to write, how to build. Sometimes I was even successful, briefly – but then the tremendously advanced tribe I had created would outstrip their learning and decimate their habitat, or prove a threat to so many other troupes that they would become outnumbered… whatever the scenario, they would either be destroyed, or destroy themselves. Whatever the new culture, it never lasted more than a century or so – the blink of an eye, to a being like me.” He sighed. “At first I blamed the Powers for undermining me, then humanity for being too simple-minded to use their knowledge responsibly. Finally, however, eventually, after who knows how many centuries, I woke up and placed the blame where it belonged. The point sank in.”

“And what point was that?” asked Spike, pretty sure he got it but willing to play the role and let the Immortal tell his story.

“That humanity isn’t my plaything,” he said. “That I could not continue as I had before. That I am not a god. Any or all of them. Primarily, though, it became clear that I needed to change more than my form; I had also to change my way of thinking. It was a painful, humbling, and exceptionally slow process, but I like to think I’ve succeeded.”

Spike glanced about, taking in the room and all its trappings. It didn’t look all that humble to him, but then he tried to visualize Illyria in a similar setting and could only imagine her disdain, her constant complaints about how far _beneath_ her all this would be.

“So,” he said. “Human, more or less. Lonesome, so you tried to rule them like a tyrant, then tried to rule them like a benevolent dictator. And then?”

“Then,” said the Immortal, “I went a little mad, for a little while. Some few thousand years, perhaps. I’ve no way to know for certain.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Sounds unpleasant,” said Spike. Because really, what else does a fella say to a statement like that?

“It had its moments,” the Immortal acknowledged. “Sometimes it was akin to being… I believe you are familiar with the notion of the ‘crazy cat lady’, are you not? I was alone but surrounded by primitive companionship, if I wanted it. However, you could just as easily say that I was surrounded by companions yet ultimately alone. My perception varied, and I coped at some times better than at others.”

“You’re not loony now,” Spike pointed out.

“No. Fortunately, humankind evolved over the eons. Learned to speak, discovered clothing, developed cultures and music and spiritual beliefs; that sort of thing.”

“Fire, the wheel…”

“Actually the use of fire predates human beings as we recognize them,” said Aurelius, “but yes, in essence. Little by little, humanity became a species with which I could have companionship, though still crude and primitive compared to the degree of intellect, the power, to which I had been accustomed. Even so, it was better than nothing.”

“You said ‘crazy cat lady’; Illyria claimed once that she was going to make me her pet,” Spike said in distaste.

The Immortal chuckled. “It’s favor, of a kind,” he said. “In its courts you would have had no real influence, of course, but you would at least have been protected, your needs attended to.”

“Oh, sure, and what’s a little dignity compared to a soft bed and kibble, and treats every Sunday?” said Spike. “Christ, make it sound like she’d be taking me out for walkies, or something just as revolting.”

“Considering that Illyria recognizes you as a half-breed, a relatively unimpressive demon inhabiting a human corpse, to have achieved that degree of regard from it is actually remarkable,” said Aurelius. “You’ll note, it has never offered as much to Angelus.”

“Well, with his soul –”

“You are the souled vampire,” said the Immortal. “Liam has an exceptionally well-crafted facsimile, in his curse, but the witches who cursed him were just that. Witches, not gods. They could no more place a soul into an already-inhabited body than they could… tuck the moon into a pocket of their skirts.”

Spike coughed. Reached for his drink. “All this prophecy rot, about a vampire with a soul… Angel’s always thought it was about him. Was a bunch of mystical mojo, happened a bit ago, once I got cured of my ghosty phase and came over solid again. Everyone said it was ‘cause there were two of us now.”

Aurelius shrugged. “They were wrong,” he said simply. “Most of what I am told occurred was simply part of the setup for your fight with Angel, which you already know was a hoax. Those who were not mistaken about its significance had a vested interest in misleading both you and him.”

“Okay, just – no,” said Spike, a bit desperate. “All I was going to say was that Angel’s soul makes him a fair bit different than when he’s without it, and mine didn’t change me all that much, so maybe Illyria didn’t want one or the other side of him but didn’t care enough about mine to let it bother her, so that’s why she did the pet thing with me but not him. Now you’re telling me…” He blinked hard, tossed back his whiskey. “Actually I’ve no idea what you’re tellin’ me, but I don’t really care to hear it either way.”

“Fair enough,” said Aurelius. “Just remember that most of Liam’s behavior is a sham – one you’ve seen through already – he is just as manipulative, and just as much a waste of my time, with his curse as without it. Remember also that he has made a bargain of some kind with Wolfram and Hart and is now trapped by it, and knows it. The redemption he claims to seek, he has nearly thrown away, repeatedly; not only that, his desire for redemption is itself a sham, because the curse he bears has compromised his free will. Consider what he wants, what he chooses to pursue every time the curse is lifted, compared to when it is in place. If your soul were somehow to be taken away, would you change so drastically?”

Spike looked away, poured himself some more whiskey rather than answer. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t change all that much, with the exception that he might start thinking he was a better, more worthy person than he really was; but most of what the Immortal was saying right now implied too many things he didn’t want to explore. The notion that the Shanshu might be about him was just the appetizer. The idea that Angel not only didn’t have a soul, but never had; the idea that only a god could put a soul back into a man – what did that say about Spike himself? Did he really have a soul? He had to or that amulet wouldn’t have worked, or at least that was what they’d all been told. Was that demon in Africa really a god in disguise – and if he wasn’t, where had Spike’s soul come from, or had it never really left?

Too many questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to. And none of them had to do with the Immortal’s story… he hoped.

“We’re not meant to be talkin’ about me,” he said finally. “We left off with you goin’ a bit barmy from the solitude, once it was just you and humanity here on Earth. When did you come out of it? How?”

Aurelius didn’t answer at first; instead he looked at Spike searchingly, as if debating whether or not to pursue the topic Spike was trying very very hard to ignore. Spike just looked back at him, no wavering even though _God_ he wanted to look away, anywhere else – just met his gaze, and waited. Finally Aurelius nodded minutely, and Spike thought he saw a flicker of disappointment pass over his face before he spoke.

“As I mentioned before, I am uncertain how long I spent alone, speaking to trees and listening to the vibrations of mountains – they resonate, you see, but too slowly for any but an Old One to notice. In any case, I eventually began to attach myself to tribes of human nomads here and there, just for someone to talk to. Unfortunately they age so quickly, and I… don’t. I was never able to stay with any one group for long. I made that mistake only a few times.”

Spike could well imagine what would happen, if he’d ever had to stay with people who didn’t know he was a vampire. They’d grow old and die, their children and their grandchildren growing to adulthood, the years flowing past like a river; while he would just maintain, perpetually in his mid-twenties.

Wouldn’t even have to do anything to bring out the pitchforks-and-torches crowd, once they caught on. Once they realized that he was something unnatural. Just existing for too long would be enough.

Aurelius sighed. “But I suppose that is neither here nor there,” he said. “You asked what happened next. Near the end of the last Ice Age –”

“Ice Age.” Spike shook his head. “Sorry. Din’t mean to interrupt, it’s just – still wrapping my lobes around the time scale you live by, is all.”

“Of course,” Aurelius nodded. “As I was saying, there was a specific type of mushroom that grew in the very shadow of the great glaciers,” he said. “It’s extinct now, so far as I’ve been able to determine. But the old tribespeople with whom I was living at the time used to use it as both a test, and a rite of passage: when you came of age, along with the expected feasting and dancing round the bonfires, you ate this mushroom; and if it killed you, then the ancestor spirits or old gods must have spotted some flaw in your character, something that made you unworthy to remain a part of the tribe. If you didn’t die, if perhaps the mushroom only made you violently ill, then clearly, they believed, you had been favored by the ancestor spirits, and you went on to be initiated into adulthood. And if by chance the mushroom gave you visions, well. You were snatched right up for training to become a shaman, a seer for your people.”

Seer, thought Spike. Visions.

“The Aurelian Prophecies,” he said.

“Precisely,” said Aurelius. “The mushrooms couldn’t kill me, and I don’t seem to be susceptible to illness, or poisoning in general. But there was something about them that extended beyond the biological, and as it turns out they did permit me, to a limited degree, to see into the future.”

“Is that where this Pure One stuff came from?” asked Spike. “You got stoned on ‘shrooms some twenty thousand years ago and came up with the idea for a cult?”

The Immortal chuckled. “You’re not far off,” he replied. “Primarily, they showed me that I would not be alone forever, that there would come a day when I might have companionship I would not outlive in the blink of an eye. The visions showed me that there was hope, and that in itself was sufficient to give me the strength to endure, and to fully reclaim my sanity.” He paused, frowned a little. “Of course, it was also sufficient to prompt me to try and speed up destiny, if you will. It wasn’t long afterward that I began to try and create that companion…”

“You mean like you created vampires?” asked Spike slowly.

Aurelius nodded. “I tried to create friends for myself, and succeeded only in creating new demons to afflict humankind.”


	13. Chapter 13

"Creating demons," said Spike. "Not your finest idea."

"Indeed not," said Aurelius. "Each attempt to bring the Pure Ones into existence took so much power that I needed millennia to recover, and more importantly, each attempt failed. My final attempt, as I've already said, created vampires. I am finally recovered from that effort, but I choose not to try again."

"You said something before about letting us evolve, or whatever," said Spike.

"Yes. When I made Nestor and the others – when I failed, again, to create a Pure One – I learned anew that I do not have as much control over the universe as I might want to believe. I could not force the evolution of humankind; neither can I force the development of the Pure Ones, no matter what my visions showed me. But what you are – what vampires in general are, I should say – was close enough that I had hopes you might be able to elevate yourselves to that state without my intervention."

"Thought that mushroom was extinct," said Spike. "How were you still having visions in the Middle Ages, when you – er, _became_ Aurelius, I guess?"

The Immortal waved his hand dismissively. "I had already written down the visions," he replied, "but after Nestor and I parted ways, I had nothing to do with vampires for quite some time. Then, when I realized how many of them walked the earth, I thought that perhaps I could either teach them how to become what I was looking for, or at least recruit them to help me search. Hence the persona of a visionary vampire, and the founding of the Order. By then enough time had passed that my appearance had changed, again, and Nestor did not recognize me from our days on Thera."

“So why drop the act?" asked Spike. "Aurelius was known for his visions. The Immortal, though…” He trailed off, looked up expectantly.

“You are correct, the Immortal is a completely different persona,” he said. “One with a great deal more façade to it than Aurelius. But once control of the Order was taken from me – once Nestor believed he'd killed Aurelius – it was time to step back. Not only because it would, how do you say, 'blow my cover' otherwise, but also because I could not keep control without keeping the Order static, and that would defeat its purpose. So I allowed Nestor to believe he had succeeded, and stepped back to allow the Order to evolve in its own direction, however misguided it might become.”

Spike nodded, thought about that for a minute. "Raises a couple questions," he said finally. "Not sure which one is more important."

"Ask anything you like," said his host.

“Something you said about façades," said Spike slowly. "The Immortal, the public face, isn't really you. But Aurelius… he's more real – more of the real you?”

“Indeed,” said Aurelius. “You may recall our discussion of names, from earlier – the Master who was Heinrich Nest who was Nestor, for instance. Over the centuries, I’ve naturally adopted several names; even after I stopped trying to rule humanity, I still often found myself in the position of advisor, teacher, mentor. In various times and places, I have been called some variant on ‘golden’, ‘bringer of light’ or ‘fire’… I was even called ‘morning star’, once upon a time.” He smirked at Spike, waiting for him to get the joke.

“Lucifer,” he deadpanned. “You’re going to tell me now that you’re sodding Satan, is that it?”

The Immortal chuckled. “Not I,” he said, “although I can’t help but be amused at the similarities. No… I earned those names again and again. All that time I wasted, believing I could be guide humanity; even after I stopped trying to rule them, I thought I might succeed if I were more subtle in my attempts to shape them, staying away from any sort of position of power while still trying to help the primitives along on their path to – I don’t know – civilization, perhaps? Enlightenment?” He shook his head. “It was arrogant of me. Patronizing, and in any case I was wrong. I finally realized that, no matter the approach, I had never once ‘taught’ humans anything that they wouldn’t have learned on their own, in due course.” He grew thoughtful again, smiled. “If anything, they have had far more to teach me than I could ever have imagined.”

Spike quirked an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“You are… familiar with poetry, are you not?”

Funny how that one topic could put Spike on his guard more quickly than just about any threat he’d ever faced.

“The thing about poetry,” said Aurelius, “is that it has rules. Restrictions. And it is the necessity of working within those restrictions that inspires the greatest creativity. One can simply _say_ almost anything, without thinking about it, but add rhyme and meter, and ah – now you have a challenge. Now you will exert yourself in order to express anything effectively – and in so doing, will discover yourself capable of expressing far more than mere speech possibly could.” He paused for a sip of whiskey. "Humankind has accomplished so much within such strict limitations. They have taught me how to work within my own limitations, and to fully embrace whatever it is that I have become, now that I am no longer an Old One."

"What's the Order of Aurelius got to do with that?" asked Spike, shifting in his seat. Christ, his leg was killing him. It was good they were finally getting down to the point of this whole meeting, but it'd be even better when they were done and he could go somewhere to heal up.

"That realization," said the Immortal, "that understanding at long last that I do not hold all the answers, is what caused me to create the Order of Aurelius. I thought perhaps the vampires would be able to help me interpret the visions I'd had so long ago, perhaps spot something I'd overlooked. Help me locate the Pure Ones if they existed."

"Right, then," said Spike, taking it all in. "The intent was to attempt to set up the conditions that'd bring about your Pure Ones, not the Old Ones. Only the Master – or Nest, whatever he was called – he thought it was about the Old Ones instead?"

"His interpretation was… inaccurate." Aurelius looked away for a moment, remembering. "Nestor had decided that 'pure' meant 'pureblood demon', and by that point most demons had either interacted with or bred with humans, such that in his eyes they were all 'contaminated'. By that interpretation, the only pure demons would be the Old Ones themselves." He shook his head. "And we were not demons, though he would never have accepted that as truth, I'm sure. He would have done everything in his power to call one of us forth, and then if he succeeded he would have been obliterated by whomever rose in answer to his summons."

"Yeah, he always struck me as more than a bit fanatical," said Spike. "All the bloody chanting and whatnot. Seemed just as stupid to me as the religious humans – going on about something none of them had ever seen, fighting wars over their speculation on what was the truth, committing atrocities in the name of a benevolent deity. All of it. But that's neither here nor there, is it?" Bloody hell, the Immortal was getting to him, turning Spike as roundabout as he was. Been with him maybe an hour and already he couldn't stick to a topic to save his life. "What were the Pure Ones really supposed to be, and what makes you think I'm one?"

Aurelius took a deep breath, let it out slowly as he finished off his glass. "Hmm… The visions I had were mostly vague, but not all of them were. Mainly, what I drew from them was a sense of something with the immortality of a demon, but the consciousness – the conscience, the intellect; the soul, really – of a human. But then, something slightly more than both. I've memorized some of the clearer visions, and the relevant passages of my writings; shall I share with you one segment that I find especially revealing?"

Spike rolled his eyes. As if he actually had a choice at this point. But the Immortal was waiting, so he nodded and did his best to keep the sigh to himself.

"It went something like this." Aurelius closed his eyes. " _Purity follows this lineage, manifesting differently with each passing generation. The most depraved of the line shall beget the innocent, and the mad shall beget him of clear sight. As to purity, the first wants to possess it; there shall be one who attempts to destroy it in all forms, yet in doing so shall create the first of the pure. This one, flawed, shall create the true pure one: he will be one who loves, and at the last will become what I have sought."_ He opened his eyes, and gave a little shrug. "I'd show the original texts to you, but I've already sent them anonymously to the Watchers' Council."

"Why the hell would you do that?" demanded Spike.

"More than one reason to everything," Aurelius said. He smiled, small and knowing at first but growing to a delighted grin. "Rupert Giles deserves to have his tidy little worldview shaken up somewhat, for one. Imagine the look on his face when he realizes that he's not only found a 'lost' volume of Aurelian prophecies, but that the verses are clearly about a vampire whom he went out of his way to despise and disregard."

Spike thought about that for a moment; the bastard may have wanted to protect Buffy, but he'd also been trying to control her when he'd sent Wood to take out her most vocal supporter. He'd taught Buffy that the soul was all-important, then ignored the fact that Spike had willingly sought his out.

Yeah. He could feel a smile rising inside him, too. Git deserved to get a smack upside the head, and doing it like this, academically, from a source he'd definitely respect? Spike's smile grew teeth.


	14. Chapter 14

“All well and good, messin’ with Giles like that,” said Spike. “Can’t say as he hasn’t earned it. That's not your only reason, though, is it? Mind you, it's reason enough all by itself.” The Immortal wasn't just a sneaky bastard; he was a sneaky bastard with a sense of humor, and Spike had to admit that he couldn't help but respect that in a fellow. Even if he had been on the receiving end of it more than once, back in the old days. “Funny how your persona is this guy who plays pranks, then underneath you have all these deep reasons for everything – but you still play pranks.”

Aurelius laughed quietly. “One finds entertainment where one can.”

“Doesn't answer the question, though,” said Spike with a smirk. “Why else did you send him those texts?”

Aurelius tilted his head in acknowledgement and took a deep breath.

“Change is coming,” he said after a moment. “I may have lost the ability to prophesy, but as I told you before, I can still make predictions based on the trends I've seen so far. And, sadly, Angelus is eminently predictable, in his general behavior if not in the particulars of his plans. I sent the texts to the Watchers' Council as a precaution, a way to protect them; and also, with any luck, to aid you. Assuming you survive what is to come, hopefully Mr. Giles's understanding of the prophecies will clear a path for you toward actual acceptance by him and the rest of the Council.”

Spike snorted. “Please. As if I'd want that. Suddenly come over all warm and cuddly with the Tweed Brigade.”

“What happens in that arena is up to you, of course,” said Aurelius, “but at least consider that you are known for your loyalty, and you do crave belonging. A family, be it demonic or otherwise.”

It was unnerving, how deeply the Immortal could see – or claim to see, at any rate. “Loyalty? Think you're lookin' at the wrong vamp.”

“On the contrary, you are unusually devoted, for a vampire. To those whom you choose,” said Aurelius. “You forget, I've met Drusilla.”

Spike looked away.

“I do not say that Giles or the other Watchers deserve your loyalty, nor do I suggest that you… ingratiate yourself to them,” said the Immortal slowly; “but it might be useful to you, in future, to have allies as powerful as they are, who are willing to be loyal to you.”

Watchers loyal to a vampire. Like that would ever happen, all this “pure one” nonsense notwithstanding. Rather than argue, though, Spike only said, “And you think that passage you quoted at me, refers to me.”

“It's simple enough to interpret,” his host replied, “but I think I shall leave that to you. It will give you something to do during your flight back to America.”

“What, we're finally wrapping up?” The question was out before he could think to stop it.

Aurelius shrugged. “I've given you everything I intended to, this evening,” he said, “and I won't be able to keep you away from Liam much longer. You know what I am, or at least, the beginnings of what I am; certainly, you know more than anyone else currently living. You know what I believe you to be, or perhaps what I believe you will become. You know to brace yourself for an oncoming storm, and I hope you know that, should you need it, you will always be able to find shelter here. You are welcome in my homes, William; you may consider me a friend of yours, if you like. I look forward to seeing what sort of being you will turn out to be, when all is said and done.”

Spike took that in for a bit. Likely he'd want to process it later, the whole “friend of the Immortal” thing, but for now… “Still a bit vague on the Pure One business,” he said. He reached for his tumbler of whiskey, tossed back the last of it, and struggled to his feet.

“I don't wish to unduly influence you, or your choices,” said Aurelius. “It's hard to know how much information is too much, how much might force you to act in a certain way. I've no desire to manipulate you, believe it or not. But I will say one last thing: Your ability to affect your surroundings with no more than willpower; the inner strength you needed before that, in order to defy your demonic nature and seek your soul; your ability to love, in the first place – all those things are extraordinary, not just for a vampire but for nearly any sentient being. Most of us follow our natures, and behave as we evolved to behave. You, on the other hand, behave in ways no vampire has ever done. And you've accomplished much that no one could ever have dreamed you to be capable of.”

Well. That was certainly nice to hear. Of course, the Immortal being who he said he was, there was probably a reason for the compliment as well, some hidden agenda in everything he said – including the promises that he had no hidden agenda. But Spike was in no mood to have his head all twisted around any further than it already was. He was no genius, though he was at least smart enough to know that; he had no doubt that trying to unravel all of his host's motivations would end with him as barmy as Dru.

He turned and picked up the ragged pile of leather on the end of the chaise longue.

“Have you decided whether you would like me to repair that for you?” asked Aurelius.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Spike said. He handed the coat over and passed a hand across his face tiredly, feeling the ache in his muscles from his collision with the piazza wall. “Assuming he notices, what'll I say to Angel about it?”

“Hm. Well, you were separated, of course; Angelus would probably have returned to the firm's offices and received new clothing, medical care, that sort of thing. You can tell him that you did the same, and the two of you simply missed each other.” Aurelius smiled. “In the meantime, you were delayed by false reports of his whereabouts and a bit of a run-in with the Immortal's people.”

A corner of Spike's mouth quirked up at that. “And we caught up to one another how?”

“It is nearly morning,” said Aurelius. “Liam will need to return to the airport soon if he wishes to make his flight. If you like, I can have someone take you there to wait for him. You might tell him you received transportation from the law firm, or that you found your way there on your own. It is your choice.”

Spike nodded. “And what about the head, then?”

“I'm sorry?”

“The demon head,” Spike pressed, “the one we came all this way to collect.”

“Oh, that.” The Immortal's smile grew wider. “I had it shipped via warlock to Los Angeles hours ago. But I beg you not to tell Liam. Let him find out on his own.”

“You really do love to mess with the great git, don't you,” remarked Spike.

“It's terribly easy,” Aurelius admitted, “and yet, it never grows boring.”

***

Once they were on the plane, Spike mostly ignored Angel until the sun came up and he could plead exhaustion, and take himself off to one of the little bedrooms toward the rear of the jet. Obscene wealth had its perks, after all.

He shut the little cabin door and tripped the lock, then leaned against it with a heavy sigh. The exhaustion wasn’t feigned, but there was too much in his head right now and he hated it; hated the idea that he couldn’t just go find something big and ugly to beat to death and let his thoughts clear a bit while the blood flew.

Spike limped the few steps to the bed and sat down, peeling his coat off slowly, wincing at the aches coming up all over his body now that he had privacy and could relax. Angel had never asked, never even noticed that the coat was good as new and he still wasn’t; he’d been too focused on whining about how poorly _his_ evening had gone, how frustrating _his_ search for that stupid demon’s head, how upset _he_ was to go to Buffy’s apartment and find her not at home.

Bastard went to Buffy’s apartment soon as he was sure Spike wouldn’t turn up, he was willing to bet on it.

But Buffy wasn’t there, he’d said (and dear _God_ when had his voice gotten that nasal tone to it, and how had Spike never noticed?). Instead, Andrew was there – sodding _Andrew_ , living with Buffy, and Angel just accepted that as if Buffy wouldn’t have slaughtered the annoying limp-wristed little doily queen inside of three days – and he’d apparently given Angel quite an earful about how Buffy was moving on with her life and maybe Angel should do the same.

The “moving on” bit didn’t mesh with what Aurelius was saying, but then Andrew wasn’t exactly famous for his ability to judge a person’s character. Even so, Spike wished he could have been there to hear him lay into Angelus. That would have been something to see.

On the other hand Andrew would probably have included him in his little speech, too.

Spike ran a hand across the leather, as smooth under his hand as it had been the day he’d taken it. He hadn’t even seen the repairs take place; he’d handed Aurelius the coat, and Aurelius had run a hand across the leather like Spike was doing now, and when he’d handed it back it was good as new. Bloody unnerving, is what it was. There was even a fresh pack of smokes in the pocket, not even crushed from slamming into the wall.

He unwrapped the pack, slipped a cigarette out, fished around for his lighter for a second, and then stopped. Changes were coming, the Immortal had said. Spike was something special, he’d said. Spike could _will_ things to happen, back when he’d been a ghost, and he might still have that ability now he was solid again.

A Pure One, the Immortal had said.

Spike looked at the cigarette for a minute, then over his shoulder at the cabin door. Yep, still locked. He frowned at the cigarette some more, sucking on his teeth. Christ, he was a gullible fool for even thinking about this, but…

He tried to recall what it had felt like, that concentration he’d needed to move coffee cups and open doors, back when he’d been all ghostly. Tried to – to _reach,_ down in deep, for whatever it was he’d used. Focused on the tip of the cigarette and tried to will it to light.

Nothing happened, of course.

Maybe went a bit cross-eyed, gave himself a bit of a headache, but of course the thing didn’t light. He hadn’t really expected that it would. All this Pure One nonsense was just a load of bollocks. ‘Course it was.

Spike slipped the fag back into the packet and dropped it into his coat pocket, then laid himself down and went to sleep with his boots still on.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Whether the Immortal had been feeding Spike a line of bollocks or not was anyone's guess; it wasn't like Spike got the chance to test any of that Pure One nonsense once he returned to LA. The weeks went by too quickly, too much going on, and the only thing that Aurelius had said that Spike was able to verify was the part where Angel was planning something. He got more and more secretive, like, and squirrelly, and before long he was actin' so turned around that Spike had a difficult time telling whether that precious soul of his had gone walkies or not.

It all came clear about two days before everything hit the fan. Angel sat them all down and spilled his plans, and sure enough, he'd decided to take on Wolfram and Hart, gettin' all rebellious, just like Aurelius had suggested. From what Spike could see, based on Angel's view of the odds, he'd figured there was nothing for it but to go out with a bang – again, just as predicted. He gave the lot of them some hero speech about how it didn't matter if they survived, or even if they won – and a bigger pile of horseshit Spike had never heard – so long as they struck a blow against evil, that was all that mattered.

In Spike's opinion, it mattered a bit more if you could actually strike, say, an _effective_ blow against evil, as opposed to just flippin' two fingers and waving your arms about dramatically, while you claimed you were makin' a stand in the name of Christmas and puppies and whatnot. If you could maybe still be standin' afterwards, that'd be a nice bonus.

"Before tomorrow, one of you will betray me," Angel told them. Dumbass. Worse than that, a dumbass with a messiah complex, _just_ who he needed to get behind.

"Ooh! Can I deny you three times?" Spike had replied. Of course he'd asked that, how could he not, just for the look on ol' Liam's face. But Spike did his part all the same, rescued a juicy little infant, and got a good bit of a brawl in against the demons who wanted him for their sacrifice.

As Spike found out later that night, Wes did his part, too. And Gunn. And they both paid for it. A bloody waste, was what it was. Spike could hope that Fred's soul was still around somewhere, that they'd been wrong about what Illyria did to it, that Wes might get the chance for one last goodbye if nothing else. Maybe him and Gunn both might get the chance for a little peace.

But anyway, here they were now, takin' on (again) the hordes of Hell, or at least Wolfram and Hart's little corner of it; and the odds were long and the night was dark, and Spike was having the time of his life in a depressing, at-least-the-poetry-slam-went-well sort of way. He was in the thick of it, o' course, taking on his share of the thirty thousand demons on the right as Gunn had put it, and mostly holding his own; but he knew, if fatigue or sunrise didn't get him, sheer numbers eventually would. Eventually, he knew, the moment would come when Spike would pay his price, too.

And then it did.

As far as deaths went, of all the ways to go that existed out there, this one was nothing spectacular; Spike was facing off against multiple opponents, and simply didn't see the spear coming until it was too late to deflect it. In almost the same instant that he spotted the attack, he felt the searing pain as it pierced his breast; felt the even worse pain as the spear point went out his back and the wooden haft made it in as far as his heart.

Time slowed down; every minute event, every change, seemed to take place in its own separate span of time, neatly framed away from every other:

Spike felt the spear go in, and then.

He heard the rip in his shirt as it came out, and then.

He felt the decay start to spread, felt that moment, that infinitesimally small moment in which he hadn't yet dusted but was about to – and how bollixed up was his life that the sensation was actually _familiar?_ – and all he could think was _Buffy_ and _he wasn't ready_ and…

…and _no._

_No._

And then.

In that moment, that precise instant, alongside the pain he could feel that _place,_ down in deep, that place he'd been able to reach back when he was all ghostly.

And then…

Then _no_ stopped being a thought and became an intention, and the intention became a _push._

So Spike focused with everything he had, and he _reached,_ and he _pushed_ —

And he wasn't sure if his eyes were closed but it didn't matter; he was focusing so hard it was like the entire world fell away, and sound faded to nothing, and he couldn't feel, except he _could_ , could feel that place, down in deep, could feel himself pushing as hard as he possibly could, and _NO_ and _Buffy_ and he didn't want to dust, not here, not now, and he wasn't going to, he refused, he _was not going to_ —

There was a twisting wrench in his gut, or maybe his heart, some shift he couldn't quantify and couldn't focus on unless he wanted to break his concentration. Some part of him registered that he wasn't in pain anymore, but he couldn't afford to pay attention to that. Some fragment of his mind became aware of voices around him, human voices instead of demon grunts and bellows and roars, but he couldn't afford to notice that, either, not even when it made him think of Buffy instead of _not dying._ With another twist of effort he _pushed_ harder, trying to make himself block out the distraction.

It wasn't working; Spike could still hear voices even if he refused to listen to what they were saying, and now he was feeling a drain, a kind of fatigue in a part of him that wasn't physical, impossible to describe because words didn't exist for that place or what it did or how he was _pushing._

Something hit him, softly, along his hip and cheek and shoulder and the side of his head, but he ignored it and kept on, concentrating with everything he had, growing more and more exhausted but only caring that he flat-out refused to die like this. There were voices, nearer now, one of them familiar or maybe more than one, but they were breaking his focus and he couldn't do that, _could not,_ so he squinched his eyes shut even tighter, pushed even harder.

And then.

Something thudded inside his chest, right near where the spear had stabbed him, but _no,_ he refused to let that damned thing end him, he was William the Bloody, Champion, saved the bloody world he had and more than once, and he _was not…_

Then there was a voice in his head, _inside_ his mind, and his concentration shredded like so many cobwebs and he was exhausted and he was going to die—

Except the voice was saying, over and over, " _You're safe now, William. You can let go, now. You're safe. William. William. It's all right. You can let go_."

The Immortal. Aurelius.

Was talking to him in his head.

Spike unsquinched his eyes and pried them open, dazzled by afterimages from where he'd been squeezing them so tightly shut. Blurred shapes. He couldn't make sense of them at first, disoriented by the way time was speeding back up to normal and the way the world was coming back; it took a moment until he realized that the thing that had hit him all along his side was the floor, and he was lying on it.

He blinked, twice, three times, and the shapes resolved bit by bit to reveal chair legs, table legs, pant legs, and lots and lots of expensive looking shoes.

Not quite what he was expecting to see, given the battle he'd been in the middle of – how long ago? A second? A century?

Trying to make his eyes move the way he wanted them to, Spike eventually managed to focus on the person kneeling near him, and sure enough, it was Aurelius, looking… actually, Spike wasn't quite sure what that expression was supposed to be. Concerned? Smug? Amused? Strange combination, and Spike was too exhausted, now, to figure it out.

"Can you clothe yourself?" the Immortal was asking.

It was only then that Spike realized he'd become naked, somehow, in the intervening span between the streets of Los Angeles and wherever-this-was. Now that Aurelius had mentioned it, he could feel the cool air stirring the fine hairs at the back of his neck and the small of his back and the backs of his legs; no sooner had he registered the sensation, than he decided he didn't like it.

 _Reality bends to desire,_ he remembered – or maybe that was the Immortal in his head again – and he focused inward, and yeah, he could still feel that place inside him from which he'd _pushed_ so hard. He did it again, less desperately this time, just like pickin' up a coffee mug (just like kicking wossname's arse, Pavayne, him, back when he'd been all ghostly the first time)… and the denim and leather flowed into place around him and he could feel warm again, and armored, protected. Safe, or at least safer.

No less confused, though. And even more exhausted.

Spike was having a harder time focusing on anything, now that he'd stopped focusing so very, very hard on not dusting; with difficulty, he lifted his gaze toward the Immortal's face again. He couldn't find it in him to say anything, but Aurelius seemed to guess what he needed, because inside his mind he heard him say, " _Well done, William. You can rest now, if you like."_

Someone else touched his shoulder, and was pulling him around onto his back; his eyes were beginning to drift shut no matter how hard he tried to keep them open, more tired than he could remember being in a long while. He tried to look at this other person, but his eyes were rolling up into his head and he could feel his body growing heavier with him stuck in it.

" _You're safe, William. It's all right to rest. You're safe."_

The last things Spike registered before it all went away again were a hand caressing his cheek, and a glimpse of long, blonde hair.

" _Rest, William."_

He did.


	16. Chapter 16

There was a bit of déjà vu when bit by bit the world came back, and Spike found himself once again waking to warmth and silence in a place he didn't recognize and couldn't remember. This time, however, instead of lying on a chaise in the Immortal's personal study or library or whatever the hell it was, he was on a bed, in a quiet little room with sunlight coming in the windows – thankfully not reaching the bed – and a single comfy-looking chair nearby.

A damned comfortable bed it was, too. It wasn't huge, but it had soft blankets and a mattress that didn't have a spring poking into his hip, the way that grotty little twin bed did in his LA apartment. Spike's body was still heavy and slack from what must have been the deepest sleep he'd had in ages; it was tempting to just roll over and pull the blanket up and let himself doze for a bit.

Still. Strange location. No idea how he'd gotten here. Again. Spike flipped the blanket aside and sat himself up.

The room was sparse but not unwelcoming; a long rectangle, smallish, with cream colored walls, and dark wood trim around the ceiling and window frame. There was an armoire in the corner of the room, also dark wood, and by his side was a little table and the chair, with his coat draped across it. Lamps on the walls. Paperback propped open on the arm of the chair. Hardwood floor with a Persian style runner. His boots sitting out of the way under the side table. Old-fashioned, push-button light switches with mother-of-pearl inlaid.

The windows didn't have heavy curtains, which was worrisome, it bein' daylight and him bein' a vampire, but Spike got the feeling he'd been asleep a while. If the sun were going to be an issue it would already have been noticed and dealt with.

Spike didn't feel like he'd recently been parboiled. Didn't feel any pain at all, actually; in fact, if he had to describe how he felt at the moment, he'd have to go with "wonderful" or "terrific" or some other nancyboy phrase. Energized and well-rested, if he got any perkier he'd have to start suspecting a spell or something was messing with his head. But no; giving himself the once-over, there wasn't a thing wrong with him that he could feel.

Of course, it helped that he was able to start off his assessment with "currently not dust." Still no idea how that had happened, but he wasn't about to argue with whatever twist of fate had put him in somebody's bed instead of blowin' in the wind.

It was when he leaned down and reached to put his boots on that he first felt the pounding in his head.

Pounding. Of a pulse.

He sat back up in a hurry and stuck his hand on his chest, then moved his fingers to the side of his throat. This couldn't be bloody happening.

He had a pulse. He had a sodding _heartbeat_. And he was starting to fucking hyperventilate about it.

Because he was fucking breathing, too.

Like an idiot, Spike lurched himself backward on the bed, trying to get away as if he were bein' attacked by some beastie, instead of it being his own body going tits-up on him for no apparent reason. He thumped his back against the headboard but it didn't change the fact that his bloody undead heart was beating as if he wasn't undead anymore, and how the hell had that happened? _What_ the hell had happened?

Wait. The mojo. The battle, there in the alley, when he'd taken that spear and then something happened and then the Immortal was there. Or he was where the Immortal was. Something. There must have been some mojo involved, had to be. This must be something to do with that.

Had the Immortal put a hand in, then, the whole "you're a pure one" bollocks moving him to rescue Spike at the last possible instant? Or maybe this was that Shanshu thing that Angel had been on about for so long. Spike looked about wildly, half expecting to see a big gaudy chalice full of lukewarm soda somewhere. Whatever it was, it had kept him from dusting in LA, and had brought him face to face with the Immortal again, but so help him if Spike found out it had turned him human he was going to be right pissed off. Or go mad.

He got up and approached the window, trying not to panic. There was one thing he had to try, even though he didn't want to. If it was true, he didn't think he could bear it, but he had to know. He had to _know_.

There was a patch of sun on the wall, just there in the corner. Spike held his hand out, noticed it was shaking like an old man's. Pulled back and made a fist, took a few deep breaths.

Reached out again, put his hand in the path of the sun's beam, and waited for a burn that didn't come.

No sizzle. No smoke. Just pleasant warmth, and skin that was brilliantly pale and gleamed in the light, as his hand started to shake again, harder this time.

He'd been useless the first time he'd been human. For all Buffy'd gone on about the soul (which, he realized, didn't burn in him anymore but sat as a comforting glow behind his heart, as warm in his chest as the sun was on his hand, _God,_ what was he supposed to do with this?), she'd valued him as a vampire because of his strength and fighting ability and now that'd be _gone,_ he'd be just another useless wanker for her to save, there'd be no more value to him than there was to Harris or the soldier boy or any of the other deadweight men in her life who weren't enough for her and never would be.

He was reeling from the shock and burgeoning panic and the beginnings of frantic despair, and never heard the footsteps approach; so when the door opened with a cheery little creak, Spike nearly jumped out his skin.

He whirled to see Giles, of all people, standing in the doorway in his house slippers and shirtsleeves, mild-mannered as you please. Carrying a homey little tray with a decanter and two glasses on it.

"So you are awake," he said. "I thought I heard a noise."

Giles. Sodding Watcher. It was him shoving that slug-thing into Spike's brain and rooting through his memories, him conspiring with Wood to murder him behind Buffy's back. It was his bathtub where Spike had spent too many nights chained like a bloody beast, the last time something had happened to _unmake who he was_ , and now here they were. Spike, apparently human again, wakin' up in Giles's guest room.

Spike launched himself across the room and had Giles up against the wall before the other man could do so much as gasp in surprise. There'd be no bloody chip to stop him this time, and he wasn't exactly feeling anything like crushing guilt over manhandling his host, either. The tray clattered to the floor, smashing the glasses and decanter and splashing brandy over Spike's feet, and the sting of it only made him angrier.

"What the bleeding hell did you do to me, you sodding git? You pedantic, self-righteous, smug little spider, what did you do? Think you can pull my strings and make me dance to your tune again, is that it?"

Spike shook him, slammed him against the wall again, and Giles bared his teeth in a grimace. "Wasn't – me," he grunted, the wind knocked most the way out of him. "Thought you – could tell us."

"You expect me to believe that, comin' out of _your_ mouth, manipulative piece of shite that you are? You bloody _turned me human_ , and I want to know how."

Giles blinked.

And then he started to grin, still struggling to catch his breath, and then he started sodding _laughing_.

If it weren't for Buffy, Spike would have snapped the man's neck for it. As it was, he damn near saw red – another side effect of the bloody _pulse_ he could have done without.

 _"Answer me!_ "

"Are you," Giles gasped, "even listening to yourself?" He giggled, fought to take a deeper breath. "Literally," he said. "Use your ears, you nit. Use your brain for something besides keeping them apart."

Spike snarled. Then he caught himself, as realization sank in.

He really was snarling. People didn't make that sound, not really. They could imitate it, but that leonine roar, the rumbling growl that was even now tumbling out under his breath – that wasn't human.

He shoved away from Giles, stumbling back and crunching glass under his feet. Miracle he didn't slice his foot open; the decanter was in pieces, and Spike could smell the brandy in a cloud all around him, burning his nose. (And he couldn't just stop breathing to block it out, either.) He looked up at Giles, angry and panicked and bewildered. Flicked the tip of his tongue forward and felt the fangs, top and bottom, same as always.

"Your brow ridges are showing, too, in case you wondered, though they seem less pronounced than usual," said Giles. He smoothed the front of his shirt, shook a bit of broken glass off of his slippers. "Suppose I ought to have expected this reaction from you, all things considered," he muttered.

"Bloody hell," said Spike. Because what else was there to say? He couldn't help putting his hand to his forehead, feeling the difference, the slight smoothness across his forehead, as he let it fade away. "Last time something screwed me up this badly I ended up chained in your bathtub, Rupes, what the hell did you expect?"

"Yes, quite," said Giles. "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm at least as shocked as you are. The Council has recently come into possession of some ancient texts that, er, that may shed some light on your… um, condition, I suppose we could call it."

Texts. Hang on.

Aurelius, again. It'd been less than a month, now, although with everything that'd happened it had seemed a lot longer than that. But Spike could still remember him saying something about passing on some of his prophecies to the Watchers' Council, partly just so he could tweak Giles's tail. Stuff about the Pure Ones.

Bloody prophecies.

"Wouldn't call it a condition – conditions're temporary. Got a feeling this won't be."

"Perhaps not," said Giles. He cleared his throat. "If – if you're amenable," and was it just Spike or did it sound like Giles was near choking on those words, "that is, let me get this cleaned up, and, we, er, we can, can discuss the texts. Some of the passages I've reviewed, I think may explain what, er, what appears to have happened to you."

Spike took a deep breath, let it back out again. Fought the urge to scream over needing the breath in the first place. Absolutely hated that it helped. He glanced over at the patch of sunlight on the wall, and found that that helped more.

The sun. Something in him craved it; had done since he'd gotten the soul. Angel and his special windows had been a treat but the craving never went completely away.

If he was what he thought he was – what Aurelius thought he was – then maybe there would be some advantages to it, after all.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "Yeah, all right."


	17. Chapter 17

Turned out, it was a lovely afternoon; and it also turned out that the house where Spike woke up had a courtyard with a tiny little garden, complete with a miniature fountain and little stone benches, decorative trees, all that rot. Wisteria trailing overhead, just coming into bloom. So now Giles and Spike were sitting in the courtyard – together, of their own free will – and Giles was working up the courage to start asking his questions or relay the information from his texts, or whatever it was.

Spike had insisted on coming outdoors, partly to feed that craving he seemed to have developed for sunlight, and partly, like Aurelius, just to keep Giles off-balance a bit. Berk was less likely to relapse, go back to treating him like worthless vampire trash, if he was constantly getting the reminder shoved in his face that Spike wasn't exactly a vampire anymore. Seemed to be working, too: He kept looking over at Spike and opening his mouth to talk, except then he'd start staring at Spike's hands gleaming in the sun and he'd forget whatever he'd been about to say. It was amusing, and no mistake.

It was all very cozy, them sittin' on a pair of stone benches, with the birds singing and the wind in the trees and a pot of tea on a tray between them, and the setting was quaint and charming and domestic – and it was possibly doing just as much to unbalance Spike as it was Giles. Not that he was about to let on; place didn't exactly scream _bloodthirsty demonic predator_ , was all.

Still. Sun felt nice, and they hadn't tried to kill each other yet, at any rate. He didn't expect that last part to go on for very long, though.

"Yes. Well. You're in Vienna, first of all," Giles said finally. "In case you, er, hadn't already been aware, or planning to come this way. You've been here just about four days now, and so far as I know you've been unconscious ever since you arrived."

Vienna. Hadn't been expecting that.

"You can imagine our surprise," Giles went on, "when we discovered that you were, er – that is to say, that you hadn't…"

"Dusted?"

"Quite," said Giles. "After the destruction of Sunnydale – hm. Well, I, I suppose I should ask, how long have you been back? Were you aware of what happened in Sunnydale as a result of the battle there?"

"Yeah, I know what happened there," said Spike. "Haven't been to see it in person, but I heard. Great bloody crater, is the way I heard it."

"You heard correctly," Giles replied. "We were certain that you'd been destroyed in that battle; Buffy left while you were still standing in the cavern, but her report seemed quite conclusive."

"It was," said Spike. "'Cept you're makin' it sound like you didn't know I came back." He gave Giles a _look,_ unamused. "Quit fishin' for information you already have, Watcher."

Giles sat a bit straighter, affronted. "So far as I was aware, you were dust, Spike, until you reappeared earlier this week – in a rather spectacular fashion, I might add – in the middle of a, a rather quaint and intimate yet still apparently rather crowded Viennese coffeehouse, in the middle of the afternoon. Though perhaps I should be unsurprised that you chose such a dramatic reentry into the world from… wherever you were."

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Huh. So Andrew kept his mouth shut after all," he mused. "Wasn't expectin' that. Little twink doesn't know how not to gossip, or brag when he knows something the rest of you don't."

"A-Andrew? We heard from him that Angel was in Rome; he never said anything about seeing you."

"He didn't, not in Rome anyway. I had other business there. No, Andrew saw me during that business with your mad Slayer. Dana." He suppressed a shudder at those memories. "Near got the best of me, she did." Spike thought about asking after her, see how she was recovering, but figured it'd just drag them off the topic.

"You'd returned that long ago?" The Watcher gaped at him, then tried to cover it by reaching for the teapot on its little tray. "Wait – you'd returned, and you were with _Angel_ , for all this time?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't slaughter one another?" Giles muttered under his breath, but Spike caught it and grinned.

"Not for lack of tryin'," he replied. "But yeah. That amulet he gave Buffy; the one I wore. It came from Wolfram and Hart, and somehow – dunno how – it wound up back there, about three weeks later. With me in it. Long story," he said quickly, cutting Giles off before he could ask, "and not exactly relevant. You said Vienna."

"Yes."

"Thought you'd've gone back to Merry Old," mused Spike, "once the business with the First was dealt with."

"I have, actually," said Giles. "This isn't my home. I gather you were under the impression that it was."

"So whose is it, then? And how'd I get here?"

Giles cleared his throat and fidgeted with his cup of tea, all the brandy having met its end on the guestroom floor. "An… acquaintance, I suppose… a quite wealthy acquaintance, in fact, was present when you first appeared. This house belongs to him. I'm given to understand that he has several such places, guest homes for visiting friends or business associates. You were brought here to recover after, er… I'm given to understand that you appeared conscious, but passed out shortly thereafter?"

"S'right." The Immortal. Had to be. Who else would just bring him to their house instead of, say, a hospital like normal people would do? Or a jail cell; some lunatic shows up at a coffee shop out of nowhere, like he did, you'd call the police first, yeah? It'd take someone with a bit of pull to shrug off the usual authorities and just bring him to their house. And not even their house, but a guest residence that he just happened to have lying around as a spare for when he'd need it.

 _You are welcome in my homes, William,_ the Immortal had said. Had to be him.

"As for _how_ you arrived," Giles went on, "either at the coffeehouse specifically or Vienna generally, well, that's rather what we were hoping to find out ourselves. Witnesses claim you appeared out of thin air," he cleared his throat, "entirely naked, before collapsing at the foot of one of the tables. However, other witnesses also insist you were fully clothed by the time assistance arrived."

"And what d'you claim yourself?"

"I wasn't there," said Giles simply. "I was notified only after you were brought to safety, here. I brought a few things with me, texts that might be relevant, that sort of thing, and flew down, two days ago now. I've been conducting what research I could, with my limited resources, and taking my turn waiting for you to wake up."

"Notified," said Spike. "By who?" There'd been a glimpse, he was almost sure of it, his memory was a bit hazy but he could have sworn he'd seen a flash of blonde hair before he'd finally succumbed to exhaustion.

And he was right in his guess, judging by Giles's reaction. "Well, I, I-I hardly think that's relevant," he spluttered, reaching for his glasses to polish. Spike bit back a grin. Just like old times. "It-it was, er, no one in particular, simply, er –"

"Simply Buffy?" He glanced sidelong at Giles, caught his tongue between his teeth.

Giles froze. The expression on his face told Spike that he was caught and he knew it. But after a moment he seemed to recover some of his spine, or maybe just to recall that despite how bloody _fascinatin'_ it all was, he still didn't like Spike very much.

"I might have guessed you'd still be obsessed with her," he said, and oh, _there_ was the cold bastard Spike had gotten to know in Sunnydale. "Even after all this time."

Spike said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and waited.

"Buffy's moved on," said the Watcher, his expression hard and unyielding. "She's put Sunnydale behind her, and she doesn't need you turning up in her life out of the blue to, to, upend what peace she's managed to find since then."

Spike had guessed right about that, too – for all his intellectual curiosity, all this civility was just a thin veneer covering Giles's lingering sense of manipulative self-righteousness. Likely he didn't really care what had happened to Spike, himself, only that it had happened and was interesting for its own sake. He likely only cared that Spike was involved insofar as he might be able to convince Spike to submit to a few experiments or some such rubbish. Aurelius had wanted to shake up the Watcher's worldview with those texts, but it didn't look like the tactic had worked just yet.

Pity for Giles that Spike was in no mood to put up with that attitude, nor was he any longer in a position in which he had to. His smile widened, though it got no friendlier, and his eyebrow went up.

"And you're the expert on what she needs, are you?" he asked. "Buffy's back to confidin' in you, then? Sharin' her secrets, tellin' you what's in her heart and on her mind? How much _peace_ she's managed to find? 'Cause y'see, Rupes, I don't think she is. Me, I got the impression the two of you weren't all that cozy after Sunnydale. You'll remember – that time you stabbed her in the back, goin' over her head to try and have me killed? Or maybe that other time you stabbed her in the back, kickin' her out of her own bloody home?"

Spike leaned in, smile vanishing. "You were in England till two days ago, while Buffy was here, 'movin' on' and all that, _without you_. And you just can't stand the fact that she outgrew you – hell, she outgrew you ages ago, Watcher, you just can't stand that she's finally realized it. So now you're tryin' everything you can to convince me – and you've shit for a poker face, by the way – that she's not around. Doin' your best not to even mention her name in conversation. Keepin' us apart on your say-so."

Giles's face had gone red and his fist was clenched in his lap. Spike leaned back, kicked his legs out to cross at the ankles, and tipped his face to the sun. "Petty little old man," he said softly, "using petty little tactics to try and control a girl who won't be your bloody plaything anymore. Because what you're really doing, clawing at her like you are, is tryin' to keep hold of Buffy any way you can; because you know in your bones that, once she's cut you out of her life completely, your own life won't mean a damn thing to anybody that's not interested in your books and your sodding _research._ " He tipped his head lazily back in Giles's direction, cracked one eye open. That was better; wanker had gone from red to white. "That brandy, earlier," he said. "Was it really for me? Or is that just the only way you can get any sleep at night?"

Giles lunged forward to grab at Spike's shirt collar. Got right in his face, he did, positively enraged to the point where Spike could practically _smell_ the fight on him. "Now you listen to me, you arrogant –"

Spike barely even moved. Just flung one wrist upward to smack into Giles's forearm and knock his grip loose – good to see he still had his superhuman strength – then swing that same hand palm-outward to shove Giles in the chest, hard enough to make him stumble back and sit down hard on his little stone bench. Then, his mouth twisted in something far too cruel to be called a smile, Spike reached over to the tray sitting between them, picked up his dainty little teacup, and knocked the drink back like a double shot of scotch. All that with the same hand, while the rest of him just sat inhumanly still on the bench. Didn't even bother shifting his face.

"Listen yourself, Rupes," he said, perfectly calm. "You're her Watcher – if and when she'll have you. You're not her father and you're not her bloody gatekeeper. If she bothered callin' you down here at all, it's 'cause she has a job for you to do and she expects you to do it. So you can take your pompous Watchers' Council attitude, and shove it right up your –"

"Oh my God."

Spike's breath caught in his chest. _Buffy._


	18. Chapter 18

He turned and stood, and there she was, under the arch with the wisteria, and as far as he was concerned she'd never looked more beautiful. Last he'd seen her, she'd been whipcord-thin from the strain of leading all those Potentials; going against her nature, which said she should be trying to protect them all, and instead trying to be general of an army that didn't even want her, much less appreciate what they'd had in her. Now she looked… like a woman who'd seen her share of mourning, Spike decided, but who was no longer in danger of being destroyed by the weight of her sorrows. There was an acceptance in her eyes he didn't remember seeing before, and an ease to the set of her shoulders that spoke volumes.

"Are you – how, how are you out here like this?" she asked, eyes wide. She stepped out from under the arch and he moved to meet her. "How are you not burning?"

They were face-to-face, and he lifted his hands, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and never, ever let go. "Buffy," he breathed. Blinked, caught himself before he could touch her. "You, uh – you look well."

She stared at him for the longest time and he just gazed back, drinking her in. It took Giles clearing his throat to pull either of them out of the trance that Spike, at least, had fallen into.

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"Forgot what it was," said Spike. That made Buffy smile, though she tried to hide it with an annoyed expression.

"I asked how you were out here in the sun," she said. Cocked her head and raised an eyebrow at him. "Another one of those magic ring thingies?"

It was Spike's turn to smile, only instead of hiding it he was sure he just looked like a goofy idiot. "Nah, not a ring," he replied. "Even better – a prophecy."

"Ugh. I hate that word."

"I know the feelin'," he said. "But there it is, and here I am. Y'think I'll freckle?"

Buffy let out a startled laugh that turned almost into a sob. But she stepped into him – her, into him, instead of him reaching for her like he'd always done – and wrapped her arms around him, carefully like she thought maybe he'd vanish if she hoped too hard for him to really be there. He heard her sniffle, just once, and his heart broke for her.

"We thought you were ash," she said. "I thought—"

"Hush, pet. I know. I was. You din't leave me behind, nothin' like that. Don't you fret."

"It's just, I mean…" she sniffled and laughed again. "I was thinking 'specks of dust', and here you're thinking 'speckle-y blemishes'."

He huffed a little laugh of his own, nearly silent, and held her close. Rested his cheek on her hair and inhaled the scent that he'd missed for too long.

She stiffened, after a moment, and he moved to let her go but she held on tight.

"Spike?"

"Yeah, pet?"

"Do I hear a heartbeat in here?" Her voice was muffled against his chest; her tone, though, sounded like she knew what she was hearing, like maybe she'd noticed it before while she and the Immortal were getting him to safety.

"Yeah, pet."

"… _Why_ do I hear a heartbeat in here?" Or maybe her tone was just guarded and suspicious and wanting to know what he'd gotten himself into this time.

"'S the whole prophecy thing," he said. "Your Watcher's got all kinds of neat books to read and everythin', 's very exciting. Gettin' a right tent in his trousers over it, he is."

Buffy pulled back to look at him with a thoroughly grossed-out expression on her face. "I did _not_ need to have that thought in my brain. _Ever._ "

"Heaven knows I certainly didn't," muttered Giles.

Spike smirked at him. "Oh, you're still here?" He leaned into Buffy's embrace. "Thought you had homework to do, little light reading before," he touched his tongue to his lower lip and looked the Watcher up and down, " _bedtime_."

Buffy smacked him on the arm. "Keep me out of your pissing contests. Both of you." She glared back and forth between them. "I did hear the tail end of that conversation you were having, you know."

"Sorry, love."

"Er, yes. Quite right."

One of them ducked his head, the other polished his glasses, and it was almost like all was right with the world again.

**

 _"Purity followeth the lineage that begetteth the pure,"_ Giles read from one of the books he'd brought along with him, _"though the purity revealeth itself in different wise as each generation passeth. The innocent of the lineage shall be created by him who rejoiceth in obscenity, the defiler of the holy places, master of vice and depravity, he who violates. Innocence corrupted giveth way to madness, yet the mad shall beget him of clear sight, who is the speaker of hidden truths and revealer of secrets. Yea, the seer begetteth him who seeth."_

Well, that was one way to phrase it, thought Spike. Having heard it straight from the horse's mouth, he could pick out the details and see that the translation to Latin, from whatever language it had originally been, and then from Latin to English, had added a few ornaments but left the meat of the prophecy more or less intact.

They'd come inside, and at Buffy's insistence, Giles had pulled out his books and his notes. It'd seemed to settle him, and Spike couldn't help but wonder if Buffy – she who ran from textbooks – was really interested in the information, or if she was just manipulating her former Watcher away from picking a fight with Spike.

Spike didn't mind; Buffy was sat next to him and, even if she wasn't in his lap, she hadn't strayed out of touching range the whole time. Whether it was holding hands or sitting knee-to-knee, or even leaning her head onto his shoulder now and again, she kept coming back into physical contact with him.

He reached up and smoothed a hand along her hair. No, he didn't mind at all.

Giles went on. _"The first of the lineage comprehendeth purity as it were a prize, treasure which he seeketh to own and possess, yet he comprehendeth it not. Possessed, purity is irony, and a mere harlot. One shall come among them who seeketh out purity, yet desireth only to defile and destroy it; yet in his arts shall create the first of the pure. She shall be pure but imperfect, innocent while yet shedding innocent blood; yea, though she laugh amid slaughter she shall be free of guilt for her crimes. It is she who shall beget the true pure one: him who loveth purity, and he at the last shall become that which I have sought. Hearken ye now unto my words, for this is my foretelling."_

He set the book down and looked at Spike over the top of his glasses. "We were hoping you might have some insight into the meaning of the passage," he said.

"What, you mean it isn't obvious?"

Giles sighed. "Humor me," he said tiredly.

"A lot of it's about Dru," said Spike. "She's the almost-Pure One, and your fella there devotes a fair bit of space to gettin' her description right. Maybe so's you'd know what to look for and be ready for the Pure One whenever he got here."

"Ooh! The parts about madness," said Buffy. "I got that."

"Yeah but it's more than that, love. 'Innocence corrupted', it says. And then later on, 'innocent while yet shedding innocent blood'. 'Free of guilt for her crimes.' That's Dru, all right."

"How do you figure?" Giles leaned forward in his seat.

"Didn't Angel tell you this story?" he asked. "Drusilla was innocent, before Angelus turned her. Devout. She had the Sight, went to confession all the time to make sure it was a gift from God and not the devil, whole nine yards." He glanced at Buffy, and took an uncomfortable breath. "He drove her mad before he turned her. Killed off her family and friends, posed as a priest so he could tell her their deaths were because of her, the devil comin' to claim his own; by the time she fled to a convent, Dru was hangin' on by a thread. He let her be for a while, let her think she was safe, but then the day she was to take vows, he and Darla slaughtered everyone in attendance. Everyone from the priest to the oldest granny nuns down to the little girls what kept the candles lit. Tore 'em limb from limb, in front of her. Made her watch. Dragged 'em out of their sickbeds, a couple of 'em, just so they could die in front of her."

"God," breathed Buffy, but Spike wasn't quite finished. He sighed. Wasn't that long ago he'd have enjoyed telling this story, whether it was to remind Buffy how rotten her precious Angel really was or just to wallow vicariously in the gore and the violence.

"Yeah," was all he said now. "Anyway, that was almost all of it. Once everyone else was dead, Angelus raped her, then threw her down on a pile of corpses and shagged Darla on top of her and them. 'Course Dru snapped. Her mind was long gone by the time he drank his fill of her." He shrugged halfheartedly. "Reckon your prophet there is goin' for a plea of 'not guilty by reason of insanity'. God knows, Dru qualifies for the 'insane' part."

"And the 'seer' part," offered Giles, "according to several Watchers' accounts. Your claim that she possessed some sort of psychic ability in life corroborates with their observations."

"And I guess we can figure out that quite a bit of the rest of the prophecy is describing Angelus," said Buffy.

Spike covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she replied. "I've had time to come to terms with… all of that."

Giles cleared his throat. "Well, it seems clear, with both Angelus and Drusilla described, er, quite clearly, in these passages, that you are the Pure One that the passage says will come. 'The seer begetteth,' after all. Though I'm not sure about other parts. The way 'purity follows this lineage,' for example."

"Yeah, well – the first of the lineage was The Master," said Spike. "You know he was head of the Order of Aurelius, yeah?" At their nod he continued, "Well, turns out he didn't found the Order, and he misinterpreted some of the writings, which was why they were so gung-ho on bringing back pure demons."

"'Comprehendeth it not'," Giles murmured in understanding.

Spike nodded. "He thought 'purity' referred to them, mostly, and not any Pure One. But 'purity' can also refer to the Slayers, and he tried to control you as well."

"Purity? Really?" asked Buffy.

"Yes, quite," affirmed Giles, "the term is used quite often in reference to Slayers. It's part of the reason the prophecy here was a bit confusing; the interpretation might refer to you or any of your, er, predecessors."

"Please don't tell me the word means what I think it means," she said flatly.

"'Fraid so, love," said Spike. Gently, he continued, "Most of you lot are Called young enough you've barely even started looking at boys, even if you were gettin' married that young in some places and times around the world. In fact, Slayers in the Middle Ages – all the Potentials, really – they _were_ married to their Watchers, even if they never consummated; Watchers thought maidenhood might be some sort of mystical requirement to be Called in the first place."

"Ew!"

"This is a bit off-topic," said Giles, "but in that time and place, it wasn't at all uncommon to marry a noble girl to a man many years her senior, Slayer or not. The point to marriage in those cultures wasn't love but cementing an alliance, by producing someone to inherit from both sides of the family. A Watcher, er, a man of my age, marrying a Slayer, would have been commonplace."

"Willow would have a field day with this if she were here," muttered Buffy.

"Yes, well." Giles polished his glasses; Spike smiled to see the nervous habit back in full force. "Marriage also would have given them privacy, a sanctioned way for him to speak with her without a chaperon – of course you understand the need for secrecy – given her the freedom to travel in his company, and of course would have made it easier for the Watcher to provide for his Slayer's day-to-day needs. You know you are unusual, Buffy, in that you grew up with your parents, remained in school, kept your friendships… but I'm not quite sure you ever understood just how truly rare your circumstances were. Slayers who grew up like Kendra did, for example, are very much the norm."

"It's still icky," said Buffy. "I mean, no offense, Giles, but – the idea of me living with you, or Merrick—"

Giles nodded in understanding, but Spike was caught on a different detail. "Merrick?"

"My first Watcher," said Buffy. "Before Giles."

"Think I might've heard of him," said Spike thoughtfully. "Didn't he kick it 'round the time that Lothos was dusted?"

Buffy's expression went grim and cold. "He did."

Spike put the pieces together. "You took out Lothos?"

"And a whole bunch of his crew," said Buffy.

"Before I even met you?" Spike beamed with pride. "You'd have been, what? Fourteen, tops?" He leaned back in his chair. "Always knew you were the best Slayer I ever faced," he said, "but damn if you might not be the best Slayer there ever was."

"Not good enough to save Merrick," said Buffy quietly. Wouldn't look at him. And didn't that kill Spike's happy glow.

No one said anything for a long, awkward, painful moment, until finally Giles cleared his throat again.

"In any case," he said carefully, "the Master sought to control purity. Then there's this passage about purity being irony, which I've been unable to decipher."

"Darla," said Spike. "Angel never knew that wasn't her real name. She was a prostitute in the Colonies, even before the _Mayflower_ came to shore; back then they named their kids for virtues. You know. Prudence. Chastity. Temperance. That sort of thing."

Giles whipped off his glasses in eager, academic excitement. "You think her given name may actually have been Purity?"

Well, if Aurelius had been telling Spike the truth, and there was no reason to believe he hadn't been, then he was pretty much positive, yeah. "Wouldn't surprise me," was all he said. "And that bit about bein' a harlot I know for sure refers to her, 'cause Darla told us. She was on her deathbed when the Master turned her. Syphilis, I think it was. Loved to go on about how the Master saved her, and the hypocrites who'd condemn her in church every Sunday morning, and then come pay 'er for a ride every Sunday night."

"TMI," said Buffy.

"But yeah. 'Purity follows this lineage'. Ol' Heinrich wanted to control purity – whether it was Darla or the pure demons or whatnot. Darla probably _was_ 'Purity', on the surface, anyway. Angelus wanted to corrupt and destroy purity and believe you me, he did, every chance he got."

"And the true Pure One is him who loves purity," finished Giles. "The passage describes Drusilla as 'pure'."

Spike shrugged. "Her, yeah. And I've always had a weakness for Slayers," he said. "Moth to a flame."

"Most moths don't go about murdering their flames," glowered Giles.

"'And at the last shall become what I have sought'," retorted Spike. " _At the last_ , meaning, not right at first. Yeah, I hunted Slayers. You know that. What you and the rest of the Tweed Brigade don't like to think about is that even when I was killin' 'em, I showed 'em a damn sight more respect than most of their Watchers would have even considered." He leaned forward in his seat, holding Giles's gaze with his own. "When you lot looked at your Slayers, you always saw a weapon, and a disposable one at that. Use her up, throw her away, what does it matter? You're guaranteed to get a new one, why should you care how she feels? Whether she's happy? Why should you care about treatin' her like a person, yeah?" He twisted his expression into a parody of a smile. "'Course, you _used_ to be different."

"Spike," warned Buffy.

He grew serious again. "Me, I saw a warrior who was worth the fight. Angelus never fought them – he liked sure outcomes, and he liked to know he was gonna win. Drusilla and all the innocent girls like her were more his cup of tea. Me, I wanted a challenge. You never feel more alive than when you're truly risking death."

He looked down at his hands. Said quietly, "It might have been sick and violent, but yeah. I was drawn to 'purity', whatever you want to call it. Loved those girls, in my own way, for how full of life they were, full of fire." He looked up again, intense. "And the ones I killed, I _killed_. Didn't defile them first, didn't desecrate them when they were done. Gave 'em the honorable death they deserved, rather than them fallin' without any dignity or pride left to hold onto. A Slayer goes down to some fledge, or somethin' that's just going to eat them when they're dead because it simply doesn't care, there's no dignity in that. An anonymous body in a back alley somewhere. Mangled remains in the forest, just some stupid bitch who ran into a wild animal, that's the story people will tell about her after she's gone. An unmarked grave, if there's enough left of her to put in the ground. The Slayers that fell to me, at least word got around afterward. People knew my reputation—knew I didn't waste my time on an easy kill. Slayer fell to me was a Slayer worth the name, and the demon world? They'd remember that name."

He glanced at Buffy, cautiously. She'd always despised what he was, before. And now here he was, as close to bragging about the old days as he could get now that he had his soul. But he wouldn't apologize for showing honor to a fellow warrior in the only way he'd known how, back then.

Buffy was looking at him, but there wasn't any disgust on her face. No hatred, no superiority over the "thing" she'd used to believe he was.

No. No, she _got it_. She understood. It was there in her face. It was almost… gratitude? Acknowledgment, maybe, of what he'd been trying to say. Respect.

"Then I fell _in_ love with one," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "You lot like to say vampires can't love, but you're wrong. We may not have souls, but we have hearts, even if they don't beat anymore. I fell in love with purity, and she made me want to be… not what I had been." He looked down at the table. "I tried. Didn't succeed. You think we don't feel guilt, neither, and maybe I didn't. But I could feel regret, and I did. I hurt the girl. Got my soul so I'd never hurt her again."

Buffy said nothing, but it was her turn to put her hand on his and squeeze.

"Giles," she said. "What was that part about secrets and truth?"

He was silent for a moment, staring at Spike, before blinking as if startled, and flipping back through his notes. "Er, let me see… yes, here it is: 'The mad shall beget him of clear sight, who is the speaker of hidden truths and revealer of secrets.'"

Buffy gave Spike a little half-smile. "Sounds about right," she said, and Spike's newly-beating heart skipped in its rhythm.

Giles closed the book and pushed it to one side. Rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I very much wish I could disagree," he said wearily, "but the berk's been awake for a little over an hour and has already taken a ridiculous degree of enjoyment in overturning certain… cherished assumptions and, and pleasant fictions, which…" He sighed, then looked up at Buffy apologetically. "I would've been happy to continue telling myself, so as to deny uncomfortable facts."

Buffy squeezed Spike's hand again, and this time he squeezed back.


	19. Chapter 19

"That was Paolo," said Buffy, hanging up the phone. "He wanted to stop by and check in on Spike."

"Ah. Yes. Well," said Giles, "I suppose that is my cue—"

Spike fought a sigh of relief, while Buffy flustered and they went through the ritual of oh-no-you-don't-have-to and really-that's-quite-all-right. The Watcher had done his best to be civil once the books came out, but there was only so much awkward conversation Spike was willing to stomach, and he'd pretty much hit his limit an hour ago. Hence the reason he was propped in the doorway, the sunlight warming his back, rather than still sitting at the table with the two of them.

Once Giles was gone, Buffy moved back to the table and started clearing the glasses away, then stopped and turned to him with a look. "You were holding back," she told him, this knowing little tone in her voice.

"Not fond of being treated like a Subject For Study," shrugged Spike. "Still trying to suss some of this out for m'self, love, not real interested in sharin' with the Tweed Brigade till I've learned a bit on my own."

"But I'm right, right? You kept saying you didn't know, but you do know? I mean, for some stuff, right?"

Spike pushed off from the doorframe and stretched, gave her a half-smile. "There's things I'd rather share with you without an audience, is all," he said. "I'm sorry if it hurts you, but I still don't trust ol' Rupes any farther than he can throw himself. But yeah. I've figured out a bit, I think." He smoothed his shirt back into place over his belly, and followed her into the kitchen. "I expect your friend—Paolo, is it?—I expect he knows a fair bit, too."

She paused, midway through rinsing out the glasses. "Yeah. He 'fessed up, after I noticed that he didn't seem nearly as freaked out as he could be when you landed pretty much in his lap, down at the _Hawelka._ " Reaching for a towel, she added, "I'm still trying to decide whether or not I'm mad at you for turning up in Rome. You can't tell me you and Angel weren't there checking up on me, there's no way I can imagine the two of you being able to stand being around each other that long for any other reason."

Spike opened his mouth to answer her, then caught himself. "Speakin' of the broody one… any news out of Hell-A? Last I knew there was a pretty bit of death and destruction goin' round. It was a spear to the heart that got me and started all this off—before that I was still just a regular souled-up vamp."

Buffy turned to lean back against the countertop, pressing her fingers to her eyes. "We found out too late to help," she said, voice muffled by her hands. She dropped them but kept her eyes closed as she continued, "The coven thought it was going to be another apocalypse, but apparently the demon hordes were just after Angel. I guess he did something to piss them off."

"That he did."

Buffy nodded. "He's gone," she said quietly. "The coven couldn't do much more than watch, but they saw him dust. And then the army more or less just… packed up and went home."

Spike was quiet for a moment, unsure what to say. Unsure what to think, really. They'd sort of known going in that they wouldn't be coming out of that battle alive, taken the time beforehand to say their goodbyes and all, but still. "'M sorry, love," he offered finally.

"Yeah," she answered, her voice still quiet and sad. "Me too."

**

"So… what is being a Pure One supposed to mean?" asked Buffy. She looked at Spike expectantly, but he could only shrug. They'd moved back out to the courtyard, Spike hoping to cheer Buffy up a little, get away from the ghosts; she seemed as eager to change the subject as he was, but if she decided to steer it back he'd let her.

"Might be there's something more in your Watcher's books that he hasn't found yet, something that might spell it out," he said, "but apart from the heartbeat, and discovering I'm a lot less flammable than I was, I don't know too much." He frowned down at the mug she had brought him, set it on the little stone bench. "Well, that and I prob'ly won't be much of a blood drinker from here on out. Or maybe just pickier about what I can have, 'cause _this_ stuff's bloody disgustin'."

"Cute pun."

"Aren't you the clever one." He took the bottle when she offered it, the Immortal had good taste in scotch, after all, and poured himself a bit into a fresh glass. "Still can't get the taste out of my mouth; haven't had anything that nasty since this one fight with a Gvorn… it ended up gettin' exploded, see, brains and scales and mucus everywhere, and I was standing in the path of the spray—"

"Well, we know your ability to be thoroughly gross hasn't changed." Buffy was giving him an impish little look he hadn't seen on her face since… well, since at least before she'd died. She was too adorable for him to feel insulted, and anyway, he'd been trying to get her mind off of Angel's death and it was working. "When you were still asleep, Giles said that the prophecy kinda implied that the Pure One was some new type of being, but then he said that whoever saw all this or wrote it down or whatever might not have had any visions about what you might be capable of. At least, he hadn't found anything yet."

Well, that fit with what Aurelius had told him; he was supposed to be turn into whatever the guy had been trying to create when he bollixed it up and got vampires instead, but even Aurelius hadn't been able to say how Spike might evolve and what he might be capable of. On the other hand… Spike shifted in his seat, glancing at Buffy. With a quiet breath, he reached inward, searching inside himself for that not-quite-place that he'd been able to reach as a ghost. He didn't remember much of what had happened after that spear took him, but he'd thought… There. Yes.

Aurelius didn't do magic, he used his will.

"When I first come back," he began, "I was all ghosty. Walkin' through walls, disappearing whether I wanted to or not, the whole bit. Couldn't touch anything. And then I had a little adventure and figured out how to do… this."

With a _reach_ and a _push_ , Spike picked up the bottle using only his will, and poured a measure of scotch into Buffy's glass. Slowly, carefully, didn't want to spill. He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed in concentration, as he set down the bottle, then picked up the glass and offered it to her, floating in midair as she stared at it with wide eyes.

"Magic? You can do magic now?"

He blinked, coming back to the regular world a bit. "Not magic, least not as far as I can tell. Will. _Reality bends to desire_ , is how I learned it. Basically, you want something bad enough, you make it happen."

"Yes, precisely," came a new voice; both Spike and Buffy turned to see the Immortal standing in the archway under the wisteria. Still the same average-looking Italian, average hair, average face, extremely above-average tailoring. "It is good to see you recovered, William." Bottle of bright green liquor in his hand.

"Paolo." Buffy smiled and hopped up off her bench to give him a hug. Spike fought the urge to growl at him, the memories of the Immortal with Darla and Drusilla competing with Aurelius's assurances that he and Buffy were only friends. That he helped her put up a front while she grieved, and she provided arm-candy for him every now and again. Certainly the hug she gave him was about as platonic as Buffy got, a quick squeeze and then a step back with a smile.

A smile she dropped, right quick. "Wait. You know him?" She turned to Spike. "You guys know each other, now?"

"Met once or twice," said Spike carefully, not sure how much Aurelius would want him to reveal, even though he probably had this possibility in mind when they'd talked. "Conversed a bit, when I was in Rome. Didn't spend all my time traipsing along behind Angel." Spike stood, nodded at the other man cautiously.

"The texts which Mr. Giles is now studying once belonged to me," said Aurelius—Paolo—smoothly. "I had my suspicions about William being the Pure One of the prophecy, and took a moment to speak with him. And of course we are both, how shall I say, older than we look?"

"Yeah, figured that out," shrugged Buffy. "You're not a vamp, you're not eating people, the rest is just details."

"Of course." Aurelius looked Spike up and down, appraisingly. "We have crossed paths before, but not to any great degree. I would not quite say that we know one another; rather, that we know _of_ one another." He held up the bottle. "I thought perhaps a drink to celebrate would be in order?"

Absinthe. Of course. Spike found himself smiling. "Yeah, all right."

**

Pleasant evening all around; Spike discovering how his taste buds worked now that they weren't dead either, tasting bits of everything Aurelius had ordered delivered to the little cottage, Buffy laughing at him and still keeping herself close. Little touches to his knee, brushes across the back of his hand, that sort of thing. She finally turned in once the clock had gone eleven, "Not being the only Slayer definitely has its benefits," and left the two men sitting by the light of a couple kerosene lanterns, the light glinting off their glasses and the beads of condensation on the sides of the absinthe fountain. Gave the bottle an otherworldly glow, as they let the quiet build between them.

"So, here I am." Spike hated to break the silence, actually; usually he was one for noise and crowds, but this… he felt peaceful in a way he couldn't remember experiencing since his human days.

"Here you are," nodded Aurelius.

"Am I about what you had in mind?" Took a careful sip of his absinthe, marveling still at the difference in the taste. Subtleties that weren't there before. Come to think of it, he wondered if he would have noticed them with his human tongue, too. Maybe the whole Pure One thing came with Pure One senses he hadn't cottoned onto yet.

"We shall have to see," said Aurelius. "The strength of the demon; the soul of a good man, forged together into something completely new."

Looked like the Pure One could blush; soddin' irritating, that. "I'm not all that good."

The Immortal considered that. "You were naïve, I think, as a mere human, and constrained by the society of your time so that you did not have many opportunities to reveal your true potential. But you could have been truly good, had you lived to demonstrate what was inside you all along." Aurelius took a breath, let it out slowly. "And then your eyes were opened as a vampire; no more naivety. No more constraints on what you might be capable of."

"Apart from bein' dead, and a vamp, sure. Nothin' keepin' me from committin' all kinds of horrible deeds."

The Immortal shook his head. "But then you grew, and changed, as so few of your kind could, and when you regained your soul you understood a great many things."

Spike looked away with a frown. "Only thing I understood was that I was truly the monster everyone had always said I was."

"You understood you were a monster quite some time after you stopped _being_ a monster, William," pressed Aurelius. "However, you were once again surrounded by a circle of so-called friends who refused to see your worth, save for one. One girl, in all the world."

The corner of Spike's mouth lifted. "S'pose that's true."

"When you were set free of that circle, you were able once again to grow, and learn, and _become._ Your new circle of acquaintances taught you much, but you still permitted them to constrain you." Aurelius turned and looked Spike in the eye. "And now you have left them behind," he said, "and it is time to grow still further. At long last, the only expectations upon you are those you choose to place, yourself."

Spike swallowed another mouthful of absinthe, letting that sink in. "'S a lot of people being left behind, or dead, the way you tell it," he said finally.

Aurelius nodded, a bit of a shrug in the way he tilted his head. "All growth demands that the old ways be left behind. The tree grows further from the soil with every passing day. The chick cannot crawl back inside the egg."

"The Old One cannot give up speaking in riddles."

Aurelius laughed. "I had begun to wonder if you had left behind your innate defiance."

"I've only been awake half a day, now," said Spike. "Still not sure what all this is going to mean. Can I still be killed? Am I still too tainted by my vampire half to be able to tolerate holiness? And all this leaving-behind business; will I leave Buffy behind?" He caught himself, looked away. "No, don't answer that last one." He already knew the answer there. She'd age. Eventually she'd die. And would he still be around for that, or would he…?

He'd craved her as a vampire, needed her, wrapped his whole identity up in belonging to her, back in Sunnydale. It took being a ghost in LA to force him to start rewriting the story of who he really was—to start _looking_ for who he really was. Supposing he and Buffy grew apart? Supposing he wasn't even in her life anymore, once that life finally ended? Supposing they'd _already_ grown apart, just in the past year, and hadn't realized it yet?

The sadness that washed over him then nearly brought him to tears.

He startled, a little, when Aurelius put a hand on his shoulder. "Whether or not you remain part of her life is not something I can predict, William," he said kindly. "The path you take together, and how long you walk it, will be up to you, and her, and how much you wish to keep yourselves in each other's lives. Come. You are too young for such melancholy, although I applaud the wisdom that causes you to think on such things."

"S'pose it's not much compared to how long you've been about," Spike allowed.

"I could tell you that you become used to it, the brevity of mortal lifespans compared to your own, but I don't think that is the truth," said the Immortal. "Unlike you, I began this existence not caring at all for the humans around me, except as possible thralls or playthings. Where you already care for them, I spent uncounted millennia learning how to do so. And now… I miss, and remember fondly, many humans, and others, who no longer walk this earth. I suspect you will do so as well."

"Sounds bloody lonely." But then, they'd already talked about that, back in Rome. "Fancy I'll go mad like you did?"

"You will not be alone, William." The hand on his shoulder squeezed before letting go. "Not unless you choose to be. I swear to you that I will remain your friend, for as long as you choose to keep me. As the prophecy put it, you have become, at the last, what I have sought."

Spike sighed, feeling the air sweep through his lungs and out his nose. "A companion. For you."

"If you choose to be, yes."

"Still don't know what that means, though."

Aurelius nodded in acknowledgment. "We are not precisely alike, of course, so I can only offer speculation or educated guesses about how you most likely have evolved."

"Fair enough."

"I had hoped that what I was creating would be able to utilize will in the way that you have learned to do. To be honest, whatever new abilities you gain will probably be an outgrowth of that. I suppose if you wanted, you could waste a century or two teaching yourself to fly, or some other frivolous thing," he added with a smile. "As for the rest… well. You liked to think of yourself as a bit of a scholar when you were human, no? And you prided yourself as a vampire on picking up bits of obscure knowledge that might prove useful in your travels. You learned almost everything there is to know about unarmed combat, for example, and taught yourself at least one demon language that I know of."

"Three," said Spike. He was beginnin' to catch on to what the Immortal was drivin' at.

"Consider: You now have a great deal of time stretching ahead of you in which to learn anything and everything the great minds of this world have to offer."

Spike licked his lips, took another drink while he pondered. All the freedom that being a vampire had afforded him; none of the weaknesses. Whatever he eventually got up to, he'd be held in check by his soul, sure, but that wasn't such a bad thing. And like the Immortal said, it wasn't like he was still that naïve git he'd been in life. Could see clearer than Angelus ever could, with or without that broody, tormented soul of his. For all that time he'd spent mullin' and wallowin' in his guilt, he never did seem to gain much insight from it. Spike might be a slow learner, but at least he learned eventually.

And now, the bait Aurelius was offering, he'd have as much time as he could ever possibly need, and the maturity not to waste it… too much.

Spike twisted in his seat and reached for the bottle of absinthe on the table. Refilled his glass with the bright green liquor, watching it glow in the lamplight. Set the spoon and the sugar cubes, and turned on the tiny spigot.

Watched the green turn to white.

" _Omnia mutantur, nihil interit_ ," he said finally. Something that'd stuck with him from his school days. Everything changes, nothing perishes. Everything changes, nothing is truly lost, he'd also heard it translated.

"Indeed," said Aurelius, looking at Spike with affection and, maybe, pride in his eyes.

Should have known better than to ask the Immortal what he was, now he'd become a Pure One. Way he was tellin' it, who and what Spike became from here on out was completely up to him.

"Here's to hatchin'," he said.

The two of them touched glasses, drank, and savored the flavors on their tongues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you want to leave extra kudos, you're welcome to stop by [my Tumblr blog](http://peaceheather.tumblr.com) and say hello.


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